Your Own Kind
by Seta Suzume
Summary: What comes after. Mags as a mentor; Mags as a victor. [sequel to Save Yourself]
1. Part I, Chapter I

"Sometimes success is as disconcerting as failure."

-Don Henley

Part I.

Just Want to Move Ahead

I try out different rooms until I find one where the sunlight creeps in each morning like it did in our old home. I awake too late without the light as an alarm (or I wake too early, in the dark, amidst the nightmares, and when I finally drift off again, sleep far too long).

This is my own time, one day after another. Patterns develop and fluctuate. Papa won't sell the old house, but he feels unkind holding onto it when, undoubtedly, there's need. He gives it to Dan Armain, his closest male friend, who basically lived on his rickety boat in the time from the rebellion until then. Dan has no wife or children, but he uses the opportunity to move his niece and her family in with him. The house may be filled to the brim, but it's a sturdier one, in a better area than they came from.

I find it hard to feel even as close as I did previously to my old friends, but I get along with basically everyone. The general gratitude is too widespread for many grudges.

Papa and I have settled physically, materially into the big house that was part of my winnings by the time the call comes (emotionally is a tougher call). "Consider this your first reminder, Mags," Apple says, "Your Victory Tour begins one month from now."

"Yes, Apple," I agree obediently. I'm neither looking forward to nor dreading this part. How much can I complain when I'm not going to have to either kill or die? Maybe seeing the other districts will be interesting. Will District 6 be as smog-choked as Sparrow suggested? "I'll be ready." It will be nice to see Apple and Aulie again, at least.

"Was that Apple?" Papa asks from his place at the table.

"Three weeks 'til the Tour," I answer. "I'm going out." If it were important, I would say more, but it's not. I'm just going out for the sake of being out. He understands the best he can.

I weave my aimless way between the empty next-door houses.

There are twelve houses in Victor's Village, so I guess the Capitol imagines a single district might have up to twelve victors at once? Will that be sufficient, or someday, somewhere, are they going to have to put up more? There is room for more. These were only the twelfth Games. The Victor's Village has its own docks and its own beach, though the houses are a ways up and away from the sand (it wouldn't do, having those pretty houses easily flooded when it storms). It's an island. Literally and figuratively.

It feels like we're very alone. Papa and I have no neighbors. …On land, that it. At sea it's another story. At sea, things are just like the old days. Odair, whose sister was a tribute, cruises by with a new girl alongside him and both of them wave. A bunch of younger teenage boys I don't know from the school rowing team alternately practice their sport and splash one another mercilessly.

Papa can't stand not to work, but there's no need any more for us to work very hard, so we pick around and don't take away from the needier people around us. I try to enjoy the familiarity of it. The simplicity.

Except when I have some inexplicable (in that I can't find the trigger) bout of nerves and seeing the shape of a big fish moving through the water makes me break out in a cold sweat. Sometimes I can go out on the boat, but I can't fish. Sometimes just wading in the shallows sets me on edge. Papa tells me to take things slowly. Rushing won't help. Setting your mind to it can only get you so far.

I have to go slowly, even when it gets boring.

The idea that Faline was saved by my actions this time, but could theoretically be reaped again some other year tugs at my mind. 'Lito has one more year of eligibility too. Sometimes when I meet up with one or the other of them after school I get into taskmaster mode. "You can't count on the arena to have big bodies of water to swim in," I say like I'm some kind of expert, or, "You can't expect to be able to get your hands on the tools you'll need or even ones you're capable of using decently."

'Lito calls this my "mentoring practice." He humors me, going swimming, practicing knots, throwing rocks at target, making fishhooks… I try to temper my arena-focused insanity in front of Faline, but from time to time she still ends up running sprints along the sand with me. Of course, as close as Faline came to it, to her, as well as to 'Lito, the exercises we engage in are a game at best. They like me, so they indulge my peculiarities. Anyway, at least we do ordinary things together too. I help Faline with her schoolwork and we make jewelry with shells and bits of glass we pick up off the beach. I help 'Lito paint in his father's boat shop; we talk a lot.

I can't manage everything they might like. I won't play a beachside game of Marco Polo. I won't let 'Lito hold my hand. How much is a result of my Games and how much is just me?

Where Games-related issues float uneasily between me and my friends, a decent number of adults have warmed to the feelings I expressed regarding readiness and volunteer-ship. I can't know how that would've gone if I'd lost (though second place would've still made my point pretty well), but I won. An older and just better prepared (marginally, in my case) tribute drastically improves the odds of halving the inevitable sorrow in District 4. So, maybe it's illegal to train for the Games, but what if a handful of kids have the inclination to hang out with a victor and learn some self-defense?

The Capitol wants District 4 to play into the larger game at stake here by lauding my victory, right? And they'll be doing that better if I'm a local celebrity of some sort than if I slip silently away to sulk at home in Victor's Village. There's a balance a victor seems to need to strike (unless you're on-television-weekly Jack Umber). Don't become too needy for the Capitol's attentions; don't hole up in your basement and black out all the windows.

Even if there's no battle training, which would do the most good, there is always my officially approved talent: basket-weaving. Weaving fibers by hand can make you a basket, but couldn't it also make a rope, a shelter, a component for a trap?

When the Capitol's cameras come back to capture me for my Victory Tour, led by a pushy woman named Tosca, Apple contrives to make sure they start with my weaving "class" (it's a bit more impromptu and instructed than how I'd describe an average class). The fact that there are seven boys present to the three girls (excluding me) is played funny, as an indication of my "who wouldn't want to date a victor?" (answer: probably plenty of people in the districts) charm. This was Apple's idea and she thinks it's exceedingly clever. I'm just happy that the Victor Affairs people are obviously buying into, or willing to pretend to buy into, this as a 'cult of Mags' thing, not an infringement of the rules.

A couple of my 'students,' Estelle and Rodrigo and Che in particular, even seem to enjoy being filmed and interviewed, which scares me on some level. The reapings aren't rigged, right? This isn't going to increase their odds of being picked? Even if they're preparing to consider staring death in the face, I think any volunteer comes at the situation differently than someone randomly picked. Just being that tiny bit more in control of your own destiny makes such a difference.

Apple becomes my temporary student for the sake of the viewers back home. She's like some shiny bit of foreign debris washed up among the ordinary driftwood, surrounded by my little group: Che, Rodrigo, 'Lito, Slip, Salvador, Tack, Jerrick, Faline, Estelle, Maria. Apple's not a natural, but we help her make a bracelet out of palm fronds and green ribbon and she's extraordinarily proud that she was involved in its construction as I see her showing it off to Papa while the camera crew takes their lunch break on our porch.

"Maybe Mags' talent is teaching as much as weaving," Papa says to her.

"Someone taught her well first," Apple smiles at him. In her sea green and silver heels she's a bit taller than him. She looks down into Papa's eyes with an easy fondness. I realize I have no idea how old Apple is or what sort of family she has, aside from the sister I happened to meet on the hovercraft on my way out of the arena. Does Papa remind Apple of her own father? Or would he be more like an older brother to her?

That he gets along with her is no surprise- Papa is my semiconscious role model in personable-ness. I've seen him angry and I've seen him argue, but I have never seen him start the fight. I can't claim the same about myself.

I say good-bye to Papa and Faline on camera. I say good-bye to Mrs. Mirande on my own. In the other districts, I'll have to see the families of the fallen tributes, but that's to be a reminder of unpleasant things for them (as much as for me?). District 4 has a victor; that they also have a loss- one that I knew and liked- won't be rubbed in. It would only diminish the viewing pleasure of the Capitol. Under the surface, everyone who knew Beanpole thinks about it anyway (Apple obliquely refers to him as 'that poor boy').

I'm upbeat with my good-byes in a "let's get this over with" sort of way. The sooner I go, the sooner I'll be home. And after the places I've been, it's easy to go anywhere knowing that I'll eventually come back.

The tour's first stop will be in District 12, working our way back down numerically through the districts (skipping 4) to the Capitol. It's going to take a while to reach 12, even at this speed. It's further from 4 than the Capitol is. My styling team reunites with me on board and spruces up my ordinary, plain appearance with some makeup and hairpins. "You know how they say 'spare no expense?'" Erinne says, laughing, "Well, we're supposed to spare expense. There's a budget and anything that goes over it, we're paying for out of pocket."

"Oh, uh, sorry," I'm not sure what to say, "I hope that the things I packed will be good enough."

Erinne laughs more at this. "Ooh, it's not up to you to take care of that, Mags!

"Knock, knock," Aulie bellows. "Ladies, may I come in?"

"Yeah," Irish counters, "And when we let you in we're never going to get you out!" She leans down toward my ear to share her more detailed grumblings. "Somehow he'll convince someone to do his makeup, which I think is how he saves money on his own."

"He can come in if you don't mind, Mags," Erinne shrugs.

"C'mon, Aulie!" I call for him. I've had his phone number this entire time, but I never quite felt I had the "need" to call him as he'd said, so we haven't been in touch. Apple only mentioned himonce among her various calls. For some dumb reason I had assumed they had some kind of common connection beyond me, but I think that's not true. Until I won, they probably worked with one another just that one month or so out of the year. And it's not like coaches and escorts have to coordinate what they're up to too closely.

"I'm going to paint him up like he's Zastra Charmain if he starts trying to use the eye shadow we brought for you," Irish grumbles.

Before I can ask an incredulous "Who?" (because if she means to be funny, I don't get her joke), Aulie bounds in, strong and strapping as ever. I reach out and he grabs my hands. "Mags! You look very nice! I think you've picked up the five pounds I thought you still needed the last time I saw you."

"Fortunately they weren't ones that made me have to alter all my clothes."

"Such a thrifty little victor!"

"You're going to have to be my spending coach too if you want me to live up to your standards in that area," I counter. "It's hard to change a lifetime of habits like that. Anyway, I plan on living a long, long time, so it's going to have to last me."

"Never ask someone from the Capitol for spending advance, Mags," Erinne warns me, "People in the districts may not know it, but a third of us outside the top echelons of society must be in debt."

"Don't mention it when that camera lady is around though," Spring grumbles, "There's a dyed-in-the-wool propagandist if I've ever met one."

"I don't like her either!" Irish laughs. Clearly, they hadn't exchanged opinions on the camera crew yet. "But the guys seem all right as long as she's not breathing down their necks."

"I like the little blond one," Aulie shares his opinion. "He looks so thin, but it seems like he can carry all that equipment just fine. …The lady, though, is Tosca Snow. She wasn't in charge of the Victory Tour filming last year, but working with- honestly, it sounds like it was more working _around_- Emmy Pollack burned out several of the next in lines for this. I don't know what made her want in, but she had the connections to do it."

"…Does that mean they think I'm going to be trouble? Because I don't want to cause any trouble." And I don't mean to, although I have a bad habit of wanting to know things that can be construed as troublemaking. I want to know about Tosca now- add that to the ever-growing mountain- and what was so wearing about working with Emmy Pollack.

"Oh, Mags," Spring edges between me and Aulie to finish the light makeup the team was putting on me before Aulie butted in, "You're so cute."

Aulie falls into exactly the behavior that was predicted for him and asks Irish to look over his own makeup. He's the cute one, I think. But "cute" also means "nonthreatening," doesn't it? And that's what I want to be. …The same as I was to some degree for my Games.

The stylists release me with news that there's another activity already waiting for me and that I should go straight there and not mess up my makeup (apparently I touch my face without even noticing it). Aulie gives me a thumbs up when Erinne begins fussing with his hair.

Someone else (Tosca, of course) has set things up in one of the cars for a "Hey, how've you been doing since your Games, Mags?" interview to be held while we travel. Apple is set to conduct it, which is good since we have a nice rapport.

Of course she still asks things that make me squirm in my seat in embarrassment. I try to answer even when it's awkward. I figure it can always be played for laughs. In fact, I'd rather it be portrayed that way considering some of the interview content. It's bothersome to imagine people in the Capitol sitting around wondering about my love life.

The questions fit the typical mold. The stuff they ask all sorts of celebrities, the stuff they ask every victor, the questions from fans.

"Have you and your father been enjoying your newfound wealth? What's the most fun you've had with the money you've earned?"

"Uh, I guess it's okay. We…re-painted and refitted the boat." As far as a living conditions upgrade, getting the new house would've been more than enough. We buy more fruit than we did in the old days, some of which has to be imported from 11, but, like I discussed with Aulie, we're used to living carefully. One windfall, however large, isn't enough to change that. I guess we're stuck in our ways. I was born in troubled times. I don't know a life that doesn't involve stretching to make ends meet.

Fixing up the boat was good though, because it employed a lot of our friends and neighbors. The Ortiz Boatshop did the paint job, the Crestas sold us nets, Majorie's shop stocked us up on all sorts of useful nautical miscellany.

"Refurbishing, hmm? Not a new boat?"

"I'm kind of the sentimental type, you know? The house in Victor's Village is really something, so that's enough newness for me and my dad. It's a good boat." It's not difficult to talk about either. We really like that boat.

"Do you have a boyfriend?"

"No." That's one of the questions that kind of gets me. I twist Faline's ring around and around.

I think Apple enjoys teasing me and, as a result, relishes this job she's been given. "Well," she leans in conspiratorially, ignoring the fact that this will be on national television, "What about a secret crush?"

She wishes, right? Maybe the viewers do. I know that Kayta Hiro's girlfriend gets attention. …I suppose none of the other victors have significant others (or not ones that the Capitol approves of enough to reveal?), because I think that would be all over the tabloid TV. "Oh, no," I shake my head, "I've got so many other things on my mind." The Victory Tour, for one. Not freaking out, for another.

"I have a feeling that you'd be able to get almost any boy around there you wanted." I don't agree, but she saw Lito. I don't know if they talked, but he could probably sell her on that impression with some of his looks of restrained interest alone. Whether that's true or not, she's supposed to say it, I have to remind myself. I'm a victor. I'm supposed to be "desirable." …But if they were picking for looks, Sparrow's the one they should've gotten.

It's in "character" for me to downplay this kind of thing, fortunately. "I don't know about that… I'm not that pretty and I'm really stubborn and," I go in for the coup de grace, "Sometimes I sleep with my mouth open and drool."

"Just a nice reminder that no one's perfect, dear," Apple chirps back at me. I think I'm cracking her up inside, but she stays as perfectly professional as you would expect. "Is there something in particular you're looking forward to on your Victory Tour?"

I can play nicer with this material because I have a sincere interest in it. "Meeting the other victors," I declare plainly.

"Any of them in particular?" Apple continues.

Okay, maybe I still need to play it cautious. I can't just say that I want to find out what the deal is with Emmy Pollack. I can still be honest though, because there's a lot more on mind regarding my fellow victors than that. "Any of them; all of them, really, but if I have to pick someone specific, um, Shy Evert? I guess I'm kind of her fan, actually. I was happy when she won." I'm not sure if it's okay for me to say that this has a lot to do with the fact that I felt like she was avenging Aoko and the other weaker tributes like her."

And there's another one I want to mention, although saying so aloud gives me pause and I can't figure out the reason for my hesitation. "…We met briefly in the Capitol, but I'd also really like to see Jack Umber again."

I don't have any good reason to give as to why. I just find him…interesting.

Of course, Apple can easily find an angle to approach this from that will stir up the fervor of the big Hunger Games fans in the Capitol, mine and Jack's both. "More interesting than the boys in District Four?" she bats her gem-speckled false eyelashes.

"It's, uh, not exactly the same kind of thing, Apple," I counter, although I don't fight the accusation too much. It's not the same thing as the talk about the boys back home. That could be something (and it could send someone there the wrong message), but this is obviously fiction. I assume that Jack Umber knows more about show business than any other victor, since he's been in the spotlight longest and being on television is pretty much his talent (as a matter of fact, I don't know or remember what his official talent is), so I can't imagined this will ruffle him much.

"Hmm, I think I'm onto something here. …Well, boys, you have some tough competition. Miss Mags went away to the Capitol and came back home with sophisticated tastes!"

"Aaaaapple," I groan melodramatically, putting hands over my face. It's as much a game as anything else (but does she have to be so- so- ooh).

"Do you have a special message you'd like to say to Jack in case he's watching?" she prompts me eagerly.

"Jack," I turn my face to stare directly into the camera, "People listen to you and no one listens to me, so next time you see her, tell Apple to stop making fun of me."

To the right of the blond cameraman, Tosca Snow looks exceedingly pleased.

When the interview airs the following night while we're still on our way out to District 12 (it was the slow start that first day that stymied us), our exchange is followed up by a "special message" in reply from Jack Umber. It actually looks like he might be sitting at home, but it's probably just some sound studio set-up. "Apple!" he announces without preamble, "Stop making fun of Mags! It's not her fault that she has good taste!"

This is all so ridiculous and apparently shocking to me that it takes a moment to set in. I should be laughing now, right? I look around to see the reactions of the people watching with me. Aulie starts laughing first, hysterically, clutching his arms around his stomach. Erinne and Spring shove each other's arms, giggling, while Irish rolls her eyes and slaps her hand against her forehead.

Tosca only smiles and reaches for her drink.

When I meet Apple's eyes, I see that she's taken aback as well. She begins to laugh nervously, "Well, Mags, I suppose you got what you asked for..."

An equally awkward chuckle escapes my lips, "So are you going to listen to him or will the mocking continue?"

"I think our friends back in the Capitol just about expect it now," she counters.

I am playing by ear here and I'm no musician, so the best I can do is one thing (one step) at a time. Jack Umber, I hope you know better than I do how to deal with what I've started, because I have no idea where I'm headed now…


	2. Part I, Chapter II

"Well, well, don't you look cute?" I pass Tosca on the way out to take in (to take on) my first stop on the tour. I offer a tentative "thanks" out of politeness' sake, but I don't feel it that deeply. I don't feel particularly comfortable with her (the rest of the camera crew haven't attempted much interaction with me, at least so far). I'm familiar with the other people comprising my team. Tosca is a stranger. …It's funny. I could take all the others in, but since the Games I feel a rising reserve toward unknown Capitol citizens. It's not the same in 4. Beyond these places, I'll just have to see.

District 12 does not strike me as a particularly welcoming or cheerful place. There's a grayish tinge to things that would be white back home. The mayor's smile is forced (it's not this detail, but how obvious it is that gets to me). I look at the people and see immediate echoes of scrawny Juna Bright and the tiny boy, whose name I don't remember. The population of 12 seems generally more homogenous to me than that of home, but it might be that I'm only seeing a particular selection of them or not looking long or carefully enough.

"How very…quaint," Apple declares their vaguely festive set up. There's some kind of harvest theme to the decorations.

"I like the pinecones," Aulie says. He's more sincere in his appraisal. "I wonder what the food they'll serve will be like. Do they have any good local liquor?"

"Don't get drunk at every stop on the Tour, dear," Apple lectures him. "I am not going to be responsible for dragging you along each step of the way. And we can't have you making Mags look bad! After all, you're a part of her team!"

"I like to think that I'm somewhat more responsible than all that."

I don't think District 12 is the kind of place you visit to go drinking for fun. …Not that I want to say you'd drink if you lived there. It's like that everywhere else right? It would depend on you. Some people are drunks back home.

Apple and Aulie bicker like siblings while the mayor points out a smattering of landmarks to me. This is town, that's the Seam, there are woods out back, and the mines are that way. It gives me the impression that District 12 is only a third, or even a fourth, the size of District 4- or that much of what counts for the district is actually underground in those coalmines. Maybe I would feel differently had I been born here, but I feel glad I wasn't. The idea of going down into the ground like that unnerves me then. And I can see it then- the Games in a mine. …Except the spectators would see as little as the tributes, wouldn't they? I don't want to engage with these thoughts any more than I have to. I try to think of other things.

An awkward session of speechmaking is followed by an awkward dinner. The mayor of 12 tells me that the wild turkey we're eating has been roasted and stuffed in a way so traditional that it predates Panem. Since people have had to eat since before the birth of civilization, I'm inclined to believe him. He is kind, in a stiff, self-conscious way.

The families of the latest tributes are singled out, the most somber members of a solemn assembly. They're probably being forced to stick around and eat just to make them even more uncomfortable.

I notice that boy's mother pointing at me. "That girl there," she probably saying, "Didn't kill my son, but she would have."

And in the Capitol, the politicians hope she adds, "They're all like that in District Four." Which would be wrong, but I did kill or significantly contribute to the deaths of five people (Ada, Sparrow, Jem, Cadelle, Haakon). Or eight. Should I be counting Korona? Heath? Laurie and Juna? It is only the thousand-fold insistences of Mrs. Mirande that keep me from adding Beanpole to that wavering internal tally. It feels possible to me to blame myself on some level for all the others (as rational or irrational as that is), but I didn't kill Beanpole. I loved him like a cousin.

I wonder if Juna's parents have thought I should have allied with their daughter instead of Sparrow.

I think I wonder about too many things.

"I didn't care for District Twelve as much as I would've liked to," Apple admits to me that evening on the train. "It makes me feel I should be more grateful for what I have. I really am a better match for Four."

I can't say I agree that she's a good match for Four, because she knows very little about the district and until I won everyone back home only used to make fun of her, but she's been a good match for me, so I don't laugh. "Maybe we'll like Eleven better," I say, conceding that 12 was not a natural fit for me either. I probably won't see it, but 11 has coastline and there's shipping out of there. We have a border.

"You've never been to the district other than Four," it occurs to me. Not that Apple would've had a reason to go to them, but, well, legally she could've, right? Don't people in the Capitol have more leisure time to use as they like? Would Capitolites travel just for fun?

"No, I haven't. I suppose I've been waiting for a victor to share them with."

"You could've gone if you'd wanted to though, right?" I pry.

"If I applied for the proper travel permits and received them, yes, but, well, tourism to the districts isn't much recommended. There isn't much in the way of accommodations… With all the scars of the war still out there, what there is to see isn't always much."

"Is there tourism to somewhere other than the districts then?" As far as I know, there might not be any other countries across the sea anymore. Papa can remember when there where at least two others in his lifetime, but if Panem contacts them anymore, they don't tell us about it.

"You can visit the arenas. I went once, after Simon. I wanted to see for myself what it was like. …But the geography isn't the same as the circumstances," Apple notes quietly.

I think she's a good person. She grew up much differently than me, but she's still good. "It's nice that you cared enough to go."

She leans her head against the window and I see her eye makeup smudge slightly against the glass. I think she's tired. "I'm really glad you didn't die."

I wonder if I had if Apple would've found another job. …Maybe she would've stuck it out to keep fighting for her sponsorship petition. "I guess I'll get some sleep," I rise and head for my room. "Good night, Apple."

"Good night, Mags," she waves a soft farewell in my general direction, "Sleep well."

After breakfast, Aulie and I watch a movie about movie stars in the Capitol. The lead's mother reminds me of Apple and we tease her by telling her so. Spring met the woman playing the heroine once. She dubs the actress, "very stuck up." Irish adds a gagging sound.

There's not much to do as we travel. I wonder what Papa is doing now. I hope that my 'students' are keeping their training up in my absence. I guess they'll get to see some edited version of my Tour on television though and that might keep them motivated. If I get the opportunity, I might tell them that I'll be able to tell if they're slacking off (even though that's probably not true).

Our stop in 11 is similar to that in 12 in everything but visuals. Some head people meet with me and there's an exchange of speeches (I comment sheepishly on Jem's considerable sense of honor and fair play that I was unable to match). I get a tour of an orchard where a tough-looking little girl is urged by some sort of foreman to climb around to find a ripe apple to give me.

"Here you go, Ms. Victor," she addresses me.

"Thanks," I accept the offering. I eye the piece of fruit and my escort at the same time. The apple from 11 is a deep, lustrous red. The one I've brought along with me has largely stuck to her favored green. Aulie snickers because he can read my mind.

"Do you work here?" I ask the girl.

"Yeah," she replies, more casual with me than with the foreman.

"I like fruit. Maybe I've even eaten something that you picked before."

"Could be," she agrees.

I want to ask if she knew Jem, or what she would've thought if he had won, but they probably wouldn't like it, and between the two of us, she's the one more likely to receive an actual punishment for pushing the rules. I ask her name instead.

"Miracle," she says, and at first I almost don't understand it.

"Wow, that's a pretty name. I've never heard it before."

"Yeah, thank you, ma'am. My ma says she wanted me to have a name no one else had 'cuz I was so special and I guess she picked right."

We exchange a little more small talk before I'm hustled on and Miracle goes back to work. I hope she only had to work a part day at most. She's young. What about playing? What about school?

Someone from the camera crew notes that this should play well because 'there's Mags, being friendly again.' Continuity of character and all that.

The sun feels nice on my shoulders, but it's probably burning the backs of the people I see hard at work all over 11 who could've been there for hours instead of just passing by. I try to smile anyway. I don't see how frowning could make things any better for the people here. I'm enjoying 11 more than 12 in any case.

Apple seems to feel the same. She tells me as much when we're leaving that evening. "I could see visiting Eleven again- having a picnic under those pretty fruit trees…"

"My dad would probably like that."

"Mr. Gaudet is a very gentle man, isn't he?"

"Well, he didn't fight the Capitol. I've killed more people than he ever will." And the Hunger Games are supposed to punish the districts for their rebellion. Did Papa's not fighting protect me until I decided to step up on my own? There were tributes in the first few Games whose parents were rebel leaders, but not all of them, or at least not all announced.

"Before he met my mother, he was studying-" I pause. I think it may be illegal now, but would they get angry retroactively. It seems so unheard of. I like Apple, but to what extent do I trust her?

I decide I trust enough. "As a...you know…a person of God," I say quietly, because just because I'm not being taped right now doesn't mean I should be reckless.

"Oh, really?" She seems surprised, but not outraged or horrified. "That's so…antiquated. There are still people like that in Four? Of course, it makes sense that you would have to have gotten your superstitious side from somewhere."

"It's the sailor in me," I counter. And that blood comes from both sides.

In District 10, I think I can safely say that the Tour starts to get interesting and the reason for that is first appearance of a fellow victor along the route. Emmy Pollack is waiting at the train station alongside Ferdinand L'Guard, her rather strange-looking (even for an escort) escort.

"Do all escorts spend that much time with their victors or is some weird thing between the two of them?" I ask Apple and Aulie as the train comes to a halt. Ferdinand's hair is oiled stiff and doesn't budge, but Emmy's waist-length locks fly about like loose ropes in a hurricane.

"She needs a lot of moral support," Apple says.

Aulie is more direct. "I've heard she's mentally unstable. He's very calming to her."

It's probably better to be crazy and alive than dead in your teens, but it's not all roses for the victors either. I can't decide whether the Capitol wants it to look like something wonderful or just the lesser of two evils (I can't decide whether the Capitol knows which it wants to depict in the first place either).

When I step out onto District 10 soil- well, concrete- Emmy claps and cheers for me. "Congratulations, May!"

You can't speak too badly of such enthusiasm, but I wonder what look I wear on my face just now. "Her name is Mags," Ferdinand corrects mildly.

"Oh," she says slowly, "That's right. Hello, Mags."

"Hello, Emmy." She doesn't move to shake hands or anything. I just sort of nod at her.

"Let's go to the First Town Plaza," Ferdinand suggests. A tough, workingman type sits at the wheel of a large, red truck, decorated with garlands of flowers. There are seats in the back so Emmy, Ferdinand, my miniature entourage of Apple and Aulie, and I can all ride out where people can see us. It's like some kind of regatta, but with a single truck it's a parade. A (very) poor man's parade. …Though I guess the camera crew is following behind.

The really funny thing is, about half a dozen people even see us before we reach First Town. The people there are politely welcoming. They probably feel a bit how every district with a victor has felt in regard to the one who followed them. "We had our turn, now you have yours." The boy from 10 had the unfortunate distinction of being the first one killed this year. Daisy Arlen made it halfway through, but she was only twelve.

"We've got twelve settlements in District Ten. We call 'em towns," Emmy informs me. "Not that they're all full towns… I am the only person who lives in Twelfth Town- the Victor's Town."

"Oh, I see," I nod more, trying got listen to her as the mayor of 10 simultaneously recites some kind of speech boilerplate about me.

"Most of Ten is ranch land. Lots of people work with cattle. People here have worked with cows for hundreds of years. Mayor Hurth is wearing what they call a 'cowboy hat' and I am wearing cowboy- cowgirl- boots."

"And now," Hurth prompts me, "Miss Gaudet will say a few words."

"You should come to my house and meet my horse," Emmy continues, filling a silence she wasn't meant to fill.

The crowd takes this all very stoically, but I think I flush before I begin speaking. I struggle through the formalities and Mayor Hurth rewards me at the end with a lucky horseshoe. Tosca, the head of the film crew, thinks the opportunity to shoot Emmy and me together can't be passed up. We go out to Twelfth Town and it takes me all of thirty seconds to goes which house is hers- the house is mainly red with white trim, but it appears to be in the process of being sloppily repainted pink from roughly the bottom up. I don't know why Emmy is so crazy about the color pink, but for some reason it forms the foundation for most of what I know about her.

"My horse," Emmy trots on ahead of me, "Is named Gabrielle. She likes to be brushed. She likes carrots and sugar cubes…"

"I'd never seen a horse in person before the tribute parade," I confess to Ferdinand.

"Hmm," he bobs his head thoughtfully. "And you're so small."

Emmy Pollack is tiny too. As a matter of fact, we're about the same height. She's about a year younger than me, but looking at her and talking to her, I would peg her as even younger than that. I don't remember much of what she acted like pre-Games. She didn't stand out all that much until the halfway mark. She wasn't one of the four most expected to win. I have to guess that the Games were a really traumatic experience for her. …And, on the flip side, wonder what it says that they weren't so paralyzing for me (or maybe I act weird too and I just can't see it?).

Emmy assures me that her horse is very gentle, but I'm still nervous alongside such a large animal. There are ribbons in her mane. To the best that I can determine, she looks content and well cared for.

Ferdinand informs us that horseback riding is Emmy's official talent and, for no apparent reason, Emmy's babbling overflow of words stops up, like she's worn herself out or suddenly switched mood entirely. She leans against Ferdinand's steady figure and stares out at us, an empty facade. She's gone away somewhere inside. She doesn't seem set to accompany my group back to First Town and, as a matter of fact, she doesn't say anything else until prompted by Ferdinand as we depart.

"Good-bye, May," she misidentifies me again.

"Is she mistaking me for someone?" I ask Aulie and Apple as we shudder back along the bumpy dirt road. It can't be the District 4 girl from Emmy's Games- not only was her name not May, she was red-haired and hardly resembled me.

"I haven't the slightest idea, dear," Apple shrugs. "I think that girl is just very absentminded."

"Cute though," Tosca adds her opinion. I'm not surprised she would like the girl who, indirectly, got her her job. She has some degree of control, I gather, over the cut of this footage that airs on television. Will Emmy's name-calling faux pas make the Victory Tour program?

When we screech back into first town, their banquet is waiting for us. They're barbecuing and it smells great. Spring and Irish and Erinne are trying on traditional District 10 gear and making sketches. I tease them about knowing what district they want to leave me for now and Erinne explains that because I won they get first decision on whether or not to work with 4 or pass on it. All three women express the opinion that they would feel traitorous leaving me for another district as long as I still want them. "As long as we're employed by the Games, we'll be backing District Four."

Just as with Apple and Aulie, I'm touched by their loyalty. But I suppose it's easy to back a winner. Apple and Aulie had past experience with Four, but the style team lucked out their first time around.

"There was a message for you, Miss Gaudet," one of the train staff- the most important one aboard I've met at least- I've seen him directing the Avoxes- approaches me as soon as I board.

"What? From who?" I tense up. Who would want to contact me? What could it be but bad news?

"Mr. Jack Umber," the man smiles a bit like he's enjoyed the privilege of being involved in this exchange. "He telephone and asked that this message be passed along to you." He passes me a piece of company letterhead with one question noted on it: "Are things going well with Apple?"

"Oh, for shame!" Apple reads over my shoulder. "That man!"

"I think he's looking forward to seeing you in One, Mags," Aulie muses. "I think he's like to do some standup comedy with you and Apple."

"He won't be doing any with me," Apple resists.

"Not willingly, but-" Aulie whispers in my direction.

I'm not sure how to respond, either the process or the words I might choose. "What should I do?" I look to my allies for guidance. They offer simultaneous statements in return.

"'I am doing fine, thank you,'" Apple suggests primly. There's a tacit, "And now leave me alone, please," attached to her message.

But Aulie's, "'Do you have a crush on me?'" draws all attention to itself from the second it registers in my brain.

"Uh-" I gape.

"Aulus Strong!" Apple chides him. I was worried I would turn red, but even if I have, it can't be anything compared to the pink creeping up to Apple's ears. I wonder why she's so amazingly flustered. "It's late," she announces, and I wince at how shrill and sharp her voice jumps out. "Mags, you should wash up and go to bed. That silly man can wait until tomorrow to hear back from you."

That buys me more time to think at least, so I decide not to push her with any dissent. I carry the note away back to my compartment. I remember my initial trip on the tribute train and the labels Apple had stuck to the doors reading "Margaret" and "Jean Paul." Sometimes I think, even while I know he's dead, that Beanpole will turn up just around the corner. Actually seeing him die onscreen during the recap didn't change that. We were only a few weeks apart in age. We weren't best friends or anything, but like family, he was a continuous part of my life.

Does a victor ever forget the person who failed to return to their district with them? I suppose if they didn't know each other before; if they didn't cross paths in the arena… Part of me thinks I should've asked Emmy Pollack about it, but, on the other hand, I'm not entirely certain she would've had a coherent answer. In 9 there will be Luna Vetiver, but if she acts in person the way she does on TV, I might be too intimidated to ask her. I'd rather save it for someone more willing. Because it's been the longest stretch of time for him, it might be most meaningful to reserve the inquiry for Jack. And I'm certain that he'll tell me. He likes to talk. He likes me.

I lie in bed. I think about what Aulie suggested. Even if it's as he said, I shouldn't ask that. …And, in any case, I don't think it is.He's just like some older brother who wants to tease. He's probably scoped out all the other victors like this, and I've just been one of the better ones when it comes to playing along. I'm happy to play along if it creates a positive attitude in the Capitol toward District 4. If our rapport isn't fake, then even better. I would be happy to have Jack Umber as a friend.

I have a dream that night where Beanpole and I take Jack to the beach, but he's afraid to go in the water. In the dream I can't conceive of how he would be afraid of anything. I wade out, with my pants rolled up to my knees, and call for him over and over (this being a dream, I lose track of Beanpole about halfway through without noticing), but he only shakes his head. He won't come. I can't understand his protests over the sound of the waves.

It sticks with me when I awake. It seems like the kind of dream that means something, but I have no idea what. I tell Aulie about it and he's similarly intrigued but lacking in interpretations.

Apple has a pre-arranged message back to Jack awaiting my approval: "Things are going well, thank you, Mr. Umber. I look forward to seeing you soon."

I laugh. "He's going to know I didn't write that!" Not that I mind if she sends it. It's pretty eloquent. Of course, if Jack guesses that it was actually Apple who composed the reply, it will only add more fuel to this very silly fire.

"Shall I send it then or shouldn't I?" Apple bristles slightly.

"No, please send it. I really do appreciate your handling it for me," I try to smooth things over, "I wasn't trying to make fun of you, Apple."

She relents. "All right. Now, we'll be arriving in Nine fairly early, so be sure and turn yourself over to the stylists right after breakfast."

I wonder further about Jack Umber while I sit and allow my hair to be brushed and wound and teased into another variation on my signature style. I see him in my mind following me to the late night borders of that party overlapped with his image on television rooting for District 1, laughing at some joke that he made. How do you become friends with a fellow victor? The same way you become friends withy anyone else, right? Anyone else you don't see much in person.

"Look!" Spring directs as we enter District 9. As far as I can see are fields of waving grain cracked by clusters of tall processing plants of some kind. Gold and gray under a serene periwinkle sky. This is clearly a huge district, like 10 and 11. "Oh," Spring sighs, "What beautiful colors."

Unlike Emmy, District 9's single victor is not waiting at the train station to greet me. Some of her family are though. Apparently, the man in charge- the "chief" he calls himself- is her maternal grandfather. I'm not sure how close this makes him to Cadelle Vetiver, but I tell him I'm sorry anyway.

Half of us pile into a black car with no top and the others, including Tosca and her crew, follow after, pointing the camera at us, then swooping around to take in the terrain. There are a few adults working some large crop machines in the fields and they raise their hands in perfunctory waves toward us.

I wave back.

The wind changes and I breathe in strangely scented air. "What's that smell?" I inquire, trying not to sound too disgusted by it, "The factories?"

"Meat processing, I think," one of the chief's young female relatives answers. "The different places all have their own kind of smell. You get used to it."

"I see."

"My mom is the forelady at the vegetable canning plant," the girl adds. She's within reaping age, I imagine. I'm afraid to ask her name with whatever it is that's going on between the Capitol and Luna Vetiver. I'm afraid in a few years I'll be coaching some kid to go head-to-head against her. I like people too easily.

"My name is Fauna," she says.

There goes that.

"Fauna Mallow." She proceeds to give me the name of everyone else riding along with me. Noah and Whistle and Faber, who are her siblings. Hurlen Miller and Naiya Vetiver- cousins. Ms. Noma, who is a teacher at the Plains One School (there are apparently two schools in 9). And Emerit Mallow, chief of the district. Sizz Larksen, the assistant Quadrant One fields overseer, is driving.

"I was the most important person they would spare," he comments. "The boss says he can stand to wait to see you."

"You couldn't?" I chuckle.

"I thought it might be fun."

"He drives all the victors around since Lu," Naiya Vetiver rolls his eyes (there is a resemblance between her and her famous relation). "He's going to ask for your autograph."

It will be a first. "I don't mind."

"Nice," Sizz cheers.

A string of colored pennants is the only concession to celebratory decoration I see. A group of mainly kids is there to greet us. "We got out of school for the day," Fauna explains. Luna Vetiver is still not present. I shake a lot of tiny hands and basically every question I'm asked revolves around Crispco crackers, the shark, or what I would've done if I'd actually been able to catch a fish in the arena. My description of how to gut a fish garners a lot of "eww, gross" from the kids, which is funny because no one acts particularly bothered by the fact that I've killed people. Do you just accept that victors are killers? Or do you let it slip from your mind, tucking it into some dark crevice of thought? I suppose purposely taking out the insides of a fish is different from stabbing someone in a flurry of madness or self-defense. I didn't deal a killing blow to Haakon.

Speeches are withheld until the nearest factory lets out early to provide an audience. Workers also come in from the fields. The parents of the dead tributes arrive. Luna Vetiver marches in, stiff and grim as on Reaping Day.

The idea of "reaping" probably has a lot of meaning in places like 9 and 11. Honestly, I'm not quite sure why the term caught on in a place like 4 anyway. But since my victory, Papa tries to be philosophical about it. "Unless a grain of wheat," he says. It means that something will come of these deaths (or something of that nature). At first I thought he was just being religiousy about it, but it occurs to me that, on some level, what he's saying implies treason. Another rebellion twelve years later? It would be doomed to fail in a fraction of the time of the first.

But the spirit of hope lives on. Maybe Papa has a dream that things can resolve peacefully. Gradually. He thinks a lot of things he doesn't tell me, I imagine, about what I did; what happened to me. I know that he approves, at least, of my efforts to be an example.

Luna Vetiver climbs the raised stone platform in the center of the town. "You killed him," she says, her eyes as cutting as cliffs you'd wreck your ship on. "Don't say anything," she stops me before I can begin, "Nothing you can say will do anything. I don't like you, Four."

I'm not confrontational enough to respond to that.

We al play out our appointed roles. The family of the dead girl must be her grandparents. They cry a lot- more than any family I've seen so far. I feel really sorry for them. I get that "I'm glad I didn't kill that one" feeling. The mix of cold hatred and drained "it can't be helped" stoicism exuded by the Vetivers is easier to accept.

I'd like to say something about Cadelle as my fellow volunteer, but I can't think of anything. I must be letting my weariness show though, because Aulie pats my shoulder. I recognize Laro, the little boy Cadelle volunteered for. He holds a strangely shaped leather ball, pointed at both ends, to his chest. I wonder what game it's for. I wonder if he played it with Cadelle.

"You're weak," Luna chides me before she leaves. "Weaker than Emmy Pollack even. You shouldn't be proud of that, Four."

I maintain the suggested silence and she leaves without saying good-bye. I can't say I like her, but I don't feel anywhere as strongly as she must feel about me. I wonder if it's just her cousin, or if there's something else to it. I'm not going to ask her relatives what her problem is though.

I end up being toured around the wheat and other grains for a while. Fauna Mallow, who finagles her way into accompanying the tour, confides in me about it. "Luna hates all the other victors. I think they remind her of what she did in the Games. …And then what she didn't do afterward."

"Oh." I feel a bit better. "I'm sorry."

Luna doesn't show up for the banquet. Someone gives Apple and Aulie and me crowns of dried ears of colorful corn to wear. The leaves make crinkling noises when we turn our heads. The meal concludes with popped corn drizzled with caramel, which is salty and sweet and generally tastes amazing, but because the tenor of 9 is so subdued, I don't want to make a big deal about it (I will wait to gush over it back on the train).

Fauna rides along with us in the car on the way back to the train station, but falls asleep leaning against Aulie. I give Sizz my unimpressive autograph, signing my name along the bottom of a propaganda paper picture for the article officially proclaiming my victory. His last question before I go is whether I have a scar from the shark bite. I bare my foot to show him the slim, snaky line, the only thing remaining from where the Capitol's surgeons patched me up. I have a feeling it will gradually fade away. It's faint enough to begin with. There's no charm in a gash on my foot. The Capitol would only leave a scar that was impressive or "sexy." I don't care that I won't keep it, though my foot's remained delicate enough that if I trip or bump it too hard, I can still feel the aftereffects of the injury (though I can't be completely sure it's not just a mind thing…).

Sizz runs his finger along the seam of my skin. "You're really something," he murmurs. I'm not sure what type of "something" he means, but it is a compliment.

"Okay now," Aulie scoops me up, "She has to go, Mr. Larsen. She has a schedule to keep."

Apple picks up my shoes and follows after us.

"Goodbye," I call to Sizz and to Fauna, still dozing in the car.

"People are so varied," I observe to Aulie, who doesn't put me down until we're in the train (I guess he doesn't want me to step barefoot on something and hurt myself), "It's interesting to be liked and despised all in one town I've never even been to before."

"You should be liked," Apple hands me my shoes. Whether because I'm me or because I'm a victor, she doesn't say. Both, maybe, as she sees it. "…It came a few hours ago, though no one saw fit to inform me about it until now, but Pal Fields sent us a request for your measurements if you're willing to give them. Apparently he's making you a present."

I have no objection to sharing my measurements. How could I, when the entire nation has seen me ragged and tattered and fighting for my life? My height and weight are already general knowledge due to the standard tribute information (district, name, age, height, weight, and anything else of interest- in my case: volunteer). It's odd though. Does he make something for everyone? As far as victors go, Pal has always struck me as very gentle. It's the same as Jack or Shy Evert (not the gentleness for Jack though). I have a good impression of them without having met them.

"I will tell Erinne," she answers dutifully. "…And Jack got your message." I have a feeling she did know about this earlier, but she just didn't want to tell me.

"Did he say anything specific back?"

"He knew _I _was writing."

I had a feeling he would. "Does he want a response from me?" I didn't mean to cheat him.

"He didn't ask for one. He just said he's watching your Tour footage every night."

Oh, joy. As if I needed a reminder to be self-conscious. Of course, I reflect further, once I've gone off to shower and wash my hair, this is Jack saying that. And, I think, Jack has my number. It may be a tease, but it's not a taunt. He doesn't want me to fail- now that I'm a victor, the Capitol in general should share his stance- he wants me to succeed.


	3. Part I, Chapter III

Aulie passes the morning with me in front of "Weekly Fashion News." He knows one of the co-hosts and keeps poking fun at them (Apple says they used to date and had a really bad break-up).

Erinne has put an outfit together for my day in 8, but she tells me as soon as I'm dressed that if Pal Fields has finished whatever he was making me, I should wear it instead. I like the long gray shirt and black pants she's put me in, they're simple and soft, but whatever comes from Pal should be special. It turns out I don't stay in Erinne's chosen costume very long, because the first person my eyes settle on as I step off the train is the mousy, retiring victor and tailor Pal Fields. He's holding a dress- pink and yellow and orange and white- and, to my eyes, it is the single most beautiful garment I have ever worn or pictured wearing.

He hangs back while the mayor officially welcomes me to District 8, though he gradually inches nearer and nearer with undisguised enthusiasm. "Congratulations!" he blurts out as soon as there's an opening in the dialogue. "May I hug you?"

"Uh- yes?"

It's a strange and awfully familiar thing to do for a guy I just met, but the way he grips me (crushing the dress between us), I get the feeling this is someone who really needs to be hugged back. I try to remember- does he have any family? Does this have to do with how he was clearly previously acquainted with his last male tribute, Heath? "Please be my friend," he whispers to me, hoping the cameras won't hear, then breaks away, not forcing me to answer in a hurry.

"This is for you," he offers me the lovely dress.

"I want to try it on right now," I declare and Apple turns me right around onto the train. The fit is just as superb as anything Erinne has made me. His handiwork is exquisitely professional. I think when I appear onscreen wearing this dress, Papa and Mrs. Mirande will like what they see. It lightens my mood just to look at and touch it.

"Oh," Pal sighs with relief when he see me, "It looks nice on you."

"This is really too kind of you," I insist, "It's a wonderful dress! Thank you so much."

"You're welcome. It's my pleasure."

When we ride into town, he positions himself so the side of his hand sits against mine. It's the calculated gesture of someone who wants to touch, but not give the wrong impression. The car is closed. It's the two of us and the mayor. "I had seven sisters," Pal tells me, "Five were alive at the time of my Games. My mother too. Maybe you remember when they were interviewed."

It's true that as his prompting, the image of five young women with variations on his coloration crowding the camera resurfaces in my mind. "Our brother," they said, overlapping one another's words and creating a melody of fear; a counter rhythm of hope, "Is clever, is good with his hands, is always used to having someone to take care of him."

"H-how did they all?" I ask, horrified.

"Factory fire. One hundred and two people died by the total count."

Accident or "accident?" Could the Capitol have possibly hated Pal Fields _so much_ that they would sacrifice ninety-six innocent people to take away his family? That's hard to imagine. Something must have happened in District 8. Something bigger than Pal, but possibly involving him as well. He's just telling me, but on some level, he's also warning me.

"I'm really lonely," he says.

The mayor, driving, lets out a snort, but I find it easy to feel sympathy for Pal Fields. I am glad we could talk like this. I turn to look out at the distort. There are a lot of factories, even more than in 9. The buildings are all such bland hues that the splashes of color where I can see through windows to where newly dyed fabric is hanging to dry (or something) are as enticing as the Capitol's most ridiculous desserts. Does anyone in 8 wear those things, or is the fabric equivalent of happiness nothing but an export?

Apparently, they wear some for special occasions at least. There are colorful banners in the "Quadrangle" (a rather impressive town square) and a subdued crowd is gathered there, clad in brilliant opposition to their general mood.

The reception they give me is equally muted- Heath and Mercy's families don't avoid my gaze, but they don't exert any special force through their looks either. They are just looking. "Oh," they're thinking, "So that's the girl." If they have any idea of what depths of loneliness Pal Fields is experiencing, they might be thinking, "Poor girl. She lived, and for what purpose?"

I have no worthwhile words for them, but watching does dredge up the memory of Pal and Heath Holystone and how I could tell they were friends from the reaping.

It isn't until I'm being toured through a very noisy factory that I can discreetly broach the topic. "Can I ask you about Heath Holystone?"

"Yes, but there's nothing to talk about. He was my last friend here. …Now," he catches me before I apologize, or express my sympathies, or both, "Once he was in that arena there was nothing I could do for him. For Mercy either. It was in-" he takes a deep breath, notes the ears of Apple, Aulie, Tosca, and the mayor all within hearing distance and decides against finishing the sentiment.

But I read into it. I nod. "God's hands," or whatever means "God's hands," to Pal Fields. I wonder if he understands that we are loosely united in this, believing, to whatever degree, that that is ultimately something more powerful than people, more powerful than the Capitol.

I think he does. From the way he played his Games, we (oh, Beanpole) - we always assumed he was a smart guy. I think the machines in his mind are spinning, just like in this factory. …But toward what purpose?

The locals may be quiet, but we visitors feel good here. District 8 fuels the fancies of my compatriots better than our earlier stops did. Apple is fascinated at seeing the ways the fabrics are made. Erinne declares the headscarves worn by some of the factory girls: "Very interesting. Very inspiring." The scarves are little flashes of color above costumes mainly plain and black or gray.

I pose for pictures in my new dress beneath a pennant-festooned "tree" of directional arrows ("Victory Square" to the right, "Head Registrar's Office" to the north, "Factories 1-3" to the left). I smile without much encouragement. I know what they want to see. I must look fairly jaunty in Pal's creation. Irish pulls him over to give his hair a once-over before they let him into any of the shots with me. Together, I would guess, we seem every more jaunty. We look a bit dissimilar for siblings, but you could probably say cousins. Cousins going to the Wharf Fair. Friends off to celebrate whatever they celebrate in 8.

The berries on my dessert that night are the only part of the meal grown natively in the district, Pal informs me. "If we get cut off," he shrugs.

…And I can't discount the possibility of his life being sliced equally short. Words like this are treacherous even twelve years on and "rebels" still hang from time to time.

I touch the side of my hand against his the same way he did in the car and he quietly gently. It's still sort of ironic when Apple notices and claps me on the shoulder with a cheery whisper of, "Oh, solidarity!"

"Do you approve more of Pal than Jack Umber?" I quiz her when we separate to leave the district. I say it smiling. It's not an accusation.

"Well, I," she glances at Aulie.

"She trusts him not to have any ulterior motives. He's your age; he's quiet."

How funny this is when I can sense the tiny fire in Pal's heart just waiting for the chance to flare up. What they think Jack might want from me, I don't know, but Pal's is an undercurrent of sorrow-forged rebellion.

"Different districts," Apple mutters, "An eleven year age difference- it's really too much. A very clever television personality he might be, but Jack Umber is not Capitol. He should know there are certain things he should not even be asking for. And," she jolts a bit, "And that's even if other people would be willing to give them."

Which makes it sound like Jack is interested in me in a way I cannot believe he would be. That I can't believe anyone with any sense would be. (And they don't read Pal that way because-?) "No," I insist, "He just wants to get a chance to talk to me more naturally. You know I played a bit on his post-Games persona in the way that I presented myself. Fortunately, however, he seems pleased rather than irked that I ripped him off."

Apple's looking at me like I'm slow. "No, dear," she says, "I think he _likes_ you.

Which I'm still not willing to believe.

I lay on my bed in the dress Pal gave me, not wanting to take it off yet. …Some clueless Capitol citizen's affections I could understand- but Jack's I cannot.

I fall asleep still dressed.

I dream about climbing trees.

My friends laugh at me in the morning when I bring the exceedingly crumpled dress from Pal in to Erinne and ask can she "iron it and it'll be like new, right?"

The expression on my face must be more pathetic than I realize. "You didn't ruin it by sleeping in it, Mags!" she's smiling as she shakes her head. "It'll be just fine!" she takes the dress out of my hands.

"I just," I mumble, "It's important to me." I pull the little note I've written out of my pocket and pass it to Apple. "…Can you see that this gets back to Pal? I mean, I know that he knows I liked it…but there's not really anything I can think of to do for him except say again."

"Oh, that's so sweet of you," Apple says. "Of course I'll take care of it."

I sit quietly (kind of embarrassed) as I scoop berries onto my oatmeal and slather an overly generous amount of butter onto my toast, then watch it melt from the warmth of the bread.

Aulie turns on the TV and flips through some menus that I didn't even know we could bring up. "I recorded something for you," he says.

I hope it doesn't have to do with Jack Umber, because I'm getting tired of being teased about that. I'd just like Jack and I to get to maybe be friends without anyone bothering us about it, but I suppose that as a victor (as two victors) that's too much to ask for. …But I think of Aulie and Apple as my friends as well so maybe it's not strange then for me to expect them to be a bit more definitively on my side.

But (fortunately) it has nothing to do with Jack Umber. It's a cartoon. Just some kid-directed thing. I watch as I eat my breakfast, although I don't know what Aulie wanted me to see it for until the funny, semi-stifled smiles start to spread across the room, indicating the point of interest to come.

The two stylized girls in the story end up hiding in some bushes. I can't see where this is going until they start discussing how they don't know how long they might be out there and one's stomach growls. Well, it turns out the other girl (the one with the purple hair) has brought along something to eat: a tin of Crispco crackers.

…and then I know. The girl with the blue hair says the words I have seen myself say in rerun almost word for word: "This is the best cracker I have ever eaten! Crispco! I could eat the whole tin!"

I've left an impression… And while it's not really the kind to be proud of, it's better than being caricatured as a killer. That's me. A goofball girl who loves crackers.

Butter drips down the side of my hand and the style team laughs at me good-naturedly as I lick it and show myself to be all too close to the joke being made onscreen. Were they ever hungry during the war? Maybe not. I think they would remember that. Or maybe I'm not funny because I'm hungry? Maybe I'm funny because I'm so earnest about it. It's that thing where it's not "cool" to show too much interest in something?

I was never "cool" until I was suddenly a victor. And even now I'm not exactly "cool," but I'm liked as I portrayed myself onscreen. There's a saying isn't there? "Everyone loves a winner?"

I think of the other victors. Of how we smiled when we saw them on TV. Even though they weren't from 4, they weren't Capitol, so they were us, of a sort. We put it to the back of our minds that Hector Auric killed both of the kids from 4 his year when he juggled apples on "Amateur Hour." I hope that people- the people in 7, the people wherever- can do the same for me.

I gaze off at nothing.

And then I'm looking out the window when I see them.

The trees.

They start out gradually, and though the varieties are different, they're of about the same density as in the more heavily wooded reaches of 4. But then there are more. And more. And more. And they're tall. And some are so thick. Amazingly thick, like no tree I've ever seen before.

"It may be cold out there," Erinne wraps a scarf around my neck, "We've been on a northward trajectory of a little while now."

"There are matching gloves," Spring holds them up for me to see.

I stumbled sideways as the train slows to a stop, trying to help Spring pull the gloves on my hands. Erinne has me turn around for them to see- a whole one-eighty. She gives me a thumbs-up. "Camera-ready," Tosca agrees. So I am lightly bundled up as I leave to meet the trees.

I can feel the cold as soon as I'm out there. The scarf and gloves and all were worth it. Is it cool here all year? If it is, the temperature of the arena must have felt very strange to Haakon and Meridew.

Not wanting to think of it doesn't stop me. I picture the pale of Haakon's face as he bled out on the dirt. I didn't finish him and I didn't save him. He said he had a sister.

"Come, come," Apple urges me forward, because apparently I'm lost enough in thought so as to miss my proper cues.

Kayta Hiro is more like Pal or Emmy in his reception than Luna as he's waiting here to see me. Raisin, his girlfriend, stands beside him. I have a vague recollection that she was being discussed on television around the beginning of my Games, but it's harder to remember smaller things like that in the shadow of what occurred in the arena. Apparently I do know what Raisin looks like well enough to recognize her. Maybe it's just that this is the proper context. I hadn't realized I would have.

"We had it in the bag, Mags!" Kayta speaks to me loudly but without anger, "We should've won that."

"It was fifty-fifty, Kayta," Raisin reminds him in a voice not even half as loud.

"I can understand why he thought it wasn't," I offer. "Haakon and Meridew were really good- better at it than Beanpole and I. …In the end, it turned out that Haakon was nice." That's why I won and he died. Haakon was probably a lot like me.

Kayta can agree with this. "Yeah, he was nice. A warm personality and all. Meridew was more cool. But I would've been happy to take either of them home with me." Raisin leans in and takes his hand. They seem very natural together. Real girlfriend and boyfriend for sure, not just some spectacle for television. The reason the Capitol wants so badly to show victors having regular lives must somehow mean that many don't (or can't).

Kayta squeezes her hand. "If I'm going to come home bringing only corpses along with me, you're a very good pick for company though," he allows. Raisin gives him this look of fond exasperation.

"We haven't made a full set yet. It was about time we got a Four."

A very pale, middle-aged man squinting through his spectacles sways unhappily from side to side. He's probably someone important out here. He's obviously not enjoying my conversation with Kayta and Raisin, but bigwig or not, he doesn't feel confident enough to butt in and cut it short. Tosca is giving him a funny look, having noticed his discomfort, but she doesn't look like she's about to step in and help him either.

I feel bad enough that I can't just let it go any longer. "Um, Kayta, is this Seven's mayor?"

"Ah, yes," he seems pleased to act airy about it as if he never noticed the hand wringing going on a few feet to his right and contribute to the mayor's displeasure, "This man is Mayor Temza Bacon."

"Victor Margaret Gaudet!" he blusters, calling me by my full name- it's the first time I've heard it in a while. I think I have been cemented into the public consciousness as "Mags." "Congratulations on overcoming the arena! Truly, you were a worthy opponent for our tributes. Welcome to District Seven!"

I expect him to reach out to shake hands after that, but instead, he keeps his hands at his sides and gives me a small bow.

"Um, thank you," I nod my head back, unsure of the proper bowing protocol. "District Seven seems like a very picturesque place."

"You like trees?"

"Yes, but none of the trees back home are- well, in Four, there's no forest like this."

"I'll take you around," Kayta resumes leadership of the conversation, "Don't worry," is his only concession to the mayor's nerves, "We'll follow the itinerary. Come on, Mags."

Parked just a ways down from the station is a clean but dinged up black truck. Kayta heads off toward it with Raisin beside him. "Um, err, Kayta, what about-?" Mayor Bacon stammers.

"Ooh, that's right. I can only get three people into the cab of my truck. And now that's going to be me and Raisin and Mags. …You mean you didn't prepare _any_ transportation for the rest of these fine folks?"

I'm not sure what to make of all this, because Kayta Hiro seems to have the poor mayor squeezed beneath the heel of his boot, and, even more alarming, he's carrying on this way in front of cameras from the Capitol. Isn't he concerned that there might be repercussions for his behavior? He makes me want to hold my breath.

One of Raisin's hands is clasped with Kayta's still, but the other stretches back toward me. I reach for it. Glove touches glove.

"I _suppose_ you could all climb into the truck's bed," Kayta shrugs. There's a slyness in his dark eyes that makes me think he's been planning on this the whole time. …Of course, I think it should've been the responsibility of the mayor to see to it that everyone would be able to get where they need to go, so…

Kayta sends Raisin and me ahead into the cab and we peer through the rear window as he jauntily assists Mayor Bacon, Apple, Aulie, Tosca, and two cameramen all into the back of his truck. The style team, who've watched everything this far from a distance, decline to squeeze in. They've probably made the right decision. The way Kayta grins when he climbs in alongside us, I have a feeling that my escorts are in for a rough ride.

"…Do you drive frequently?" my voice comes out in an unplanned squeak.

"All the time. …Did I not mention it in my Games interview? Eh, it was a long time ago now- maybe you forgot. Before my dad died, back in the rebellion, he taught me how to drive- I was still kind of small then, so I had some trouble trying to see where I was going and reaching the pedals at the same time, but, eh." He laughs. "This truck used to belong to him. He left it to me. The times I had to leave the logging camp and be in town, I lived in this truck."

"That's how I met him," Raisin offers, "My mother was the district postmaster and no one could ever figure out where to send things to so they'd reach him, even though we kids in school were sure he lived in town. One day, to help my mom, I tailed him him and saw him climb into this truck and go nowhere."

They're both smiling at the memory, though Raisin's response is warm and full and Kayta's is tight and thin. "And now," he announces as he turns off the paved area around the train station onto a wide dirt road, "Hold on, ladies, because it's going to be an interesting ride from here on out…"

The translation of this is that Kayta Hiro can not only drive well, he can also drive like the slightly off-kilter young man who killed six people and smiled and smiled and smiled afterward. It's not as if he's just out and out reckless. I never fear for _my_ life, that is. But the people in the back must be having quite a ride, bumped and shaken this way and that over the holes in the road and around the corners he manages to take as sharply as possible.

Apple's yelps make me feel sort of guilty.

But not enough, apparently, to ask him to stop.

"All out, folks!" Kayta swerves and brakes. From the back come sighs of relief.

I can hear Tosca interrogating the mayor: "Do you run this place or does he?!" I don't catch Mayor Bacon's actual response, but it doesn't sound as if his timid streak has suddenly ended. Kayta Hiro doesn't run 7, but Temza Bacon doesn't cross him, I'd guess.

I move as if to exit the vehicle, but Raisin stays my hand. "Mags, you get the special tour." Her smile is mischievous.

"…what does the special tour entail?" While I'm sure Raisin and Kayta mean this with only the best of intentions, they are making me a bit nervous. I didn't come prepared for any portion of the Tour to go so distinctly and purposely off the rails. What if I protested against it? Would they drag me off with them anyway? …Looking at them, I am led to believe that they might. Not be to cruel, of course. Because they think it would be fun.

"Forest, forest, and more forest!" Kayta slams his foot on the pedal and we take off, leaving the mayor and my entourage behind. "-And not a camera in sight!"

"Oh, Mags, it'll be okay," Raisin tries to comfort me, because my surprise and worry must show clearly on my face.

"D-do you do this kind of thing with all the victors?" I sputter.

"Of course not," Kayta chuckles, "If we did that, even someone as dim as Bacon would've caught onto us and figured out a way to stop us by now!"

"We would never have done something like this with Emmy." Raisin looks slightly horrified by the idea. "Who knows what kind of reaction she would've had to it."

"We got Pal pretty good though," Kayta reminisces.

"He was scared at first, but he ended up enjoying himself," Raisin expands upon this remark. "And, see? We didn't get him in bad trouble. Pal's just fine, isn't he? I mean, you just saw him."

Just fine? I doubt it has anything to do with any misbehaving on Kayta and Raisin's part, but Pal Fields is hardly fine by my standards. Is this another "you're a victor adjust your standards" moment? Because Pal seems sane and coherent, things I'm not sure can be said about all the victors, but he's also lonely and desperate and sad (and there was so little I could do for him, it felt like nothing). "I-" I begin to formulate a polite way to object to this statement.

But Kayta cuts in. "She doesn't get it, Mags. She _can't_ get it the same way we do. And, honestly, I'm glad it's going to stay that way, because hasn't that evil contaminated enough?"

We all go quiet. Small branches snap beneath the wheels of Kayta's truck.

Raisin seems to be pouting, but whether I caused it or Kayta did isn't immediately clear anymore. "Pal Fields wants to make me a wedding dress." She breaks the silence with a tiny smile. "Of course, I'd ultimately prefer it were up to a certain man in this truck. I do a lot of things, but asking is something I'd like him to do."

"Eeeeeh?" Kayta makes an exaggerated noise of- confusion? "What was that, Raisin?"

"Stop the truck and let's go for our walk," she says in a snippy manner.

"As ya wish, beautiful!" he brings the truck to…a surprisingly smooth stop after all the screeching around he's done thus far.

"Ah, _dooooomo_," she chirps and hops out the door.

I follow her. Just a few steps off the vaguely defined road the layer of fallen leaves becomes layers. They crunch beneath my feet. There's something ocean-like about them. Like a beach of dead leaves instead of sand. A cold breeze blows through the trees. Loose strands of hair flutter around my ears. "Is there something special about this place in particular?" I ask.

Kayta gets out of the truck. "Not this exact spot."

"It's just a spot," Raisin giggles. Does she have extra teeth or are they just squeezed together too tightly in her mouth? Close-up I really notice how they overlap. Is that genetic?

Kayta walks in front and Raisin and I follow him, meandering through the trees (I am counting on the two of them not to get lost, because it all looks pretty much the same to me). He tells me some things about the trees- the different types, how old they are, how long they take to grow, what the best uses are for different kinds. The way he pauses and laughs at some of the things he says, I'm left to wonder if there are jokes here I don't understand or if he's trying to convey some kind of coded message that flies equally over my head.

"So…you're friends with some of the other victors?"

"There's a group of us. Me, Shy, Sunny, Pal, and Jack. And," he adds, "Probably you, I figured."

I'm a bit coy in my response. "What are the conditions?" I don't think there's anything as strict as that to be considered, but I'm curious as to what he'll tell me.

"You have to be friendly. That's pretty much it. …And you have to be with it enough to be trustworthy."

"Who's not 'with it?'" I can already guess the answer.

"Emmy Pollack." He shrugs. "I couldn't guess the slightest thing that goes through that girl's head."

"Pink," Raisin volunteers, "Ferdinand."

"Aaah, yes," he accepts these as valid answers. "Ferdinand," he repeats. "Anyway, I don't want to spoil the surprises for you, but it's like this. Emmy is a head case, Luna hates everyone who isn't from Nine, Pal lives up to his name- though I don't understand why he's not just called "Paul" or "Pol" or something more normal-"

"It must be some kind of Seven thing," Raisin chimes in on the tangent.

"Ohh," I realize, "It's like a nickname for Paolo or Pablo? I thought it was a different kind of name entirely."

"Actually," Raisin begins.

"We don't know," the say at once, then laugh. There's something about the way that their eyes meet that fills me with embarrassment. It's sweet and I'm uncomfortable seeing it. "We just thought…" Raisin finishes. "It's like I've never known anyone called 'Mags,' but I know a Margreta called 'Greta,' so I understood that it was just a District Four thing."

"Cross-district couples wouldn't just talk about names- they'd have to think about versions of names," Kayta muses.

Now Raisin looks embarrassed. "D-don't talk about names!" she spits out, flustered.

"Were you going to tell me about the rest?" I come to her rescue. "After Pal?"

"Ah, yeah," he agrees. "Want to sit?" Before I answer, he makes a show of taking off his coat and lying it on the leaves under a nicely shaped tree, gesturing for Raisin and me to sit down on it. She takes the offer first and I slowly follow. Kayta sits down in the dirt across from us, but doesn't seem to care about that. I would've sat on the bare ground too, although I would be slightly concerned about getting the nice clothes my style team chose dirty (if it were my own clothes, I wouldn't worry- I'd just wash them later).

"So, there's me. I should probably let you come to your own conclusions about me."

Something about the look on my face gives him my answer. "…Then again, you probably already have."

"I might've," I play along.

"Then in Six there's Teejay and Sunny. Like I said, Sunny's nice. She's a good person. Too good a person for our crowd, really. Teejay's usually in his own world and that's where he wants to stay. Shy's nice too. She doesn't take Games stuff personally, which is good. In my opinion, she has a kind of scary ability to disconnect from things she doesn't want to feel anything about. …I don't think Beto dislikes us, but maybe he thinks he's above us? He's too smart for me, anyway. He likes to be by himself. Gerik and Hector will talk, but they keep to themselves. You…" he pauses to think, "You don't seem so different, but I don't know- the inner districts seem to have more distinct cultures. Different things are going on there. Outer districts get each other."

"And probably bleed together to the Capitol," Raisin speaks up.

"Yeah, you've got that," he grumbles, "I'll tell you right now I don't know anything about horses."

"I didn't think so," I smile.

He seems to have worn out his speech about the other victors with this second digression, but I'm still interested in hearing what he says about Jack. Who is from an indisputably inner district, but who Kayta also considers part of his group of friends? "What about Ja-"

"Mags, darling!" calls Apple, "I hear you! Let me know where you are!"

"_Grobian_! Malefactor! _P_ǐ_zi_!"

Those must be Mayor Bacon. I don't understand any of the words he's saying, so I'm supposing that frustration brings out the dialect in him.

"Bus-ted," Raisin singsongs.

Mayor Bacon comes into sight first. Kayta jumps up to greet him, acting for all the world as if it never even occurred to him that what he was doing could be considered wrong or insubordinate. He does this so easily I can't help but feel a little sorry for the mayor again. Kayta exerts the pressure of a tidal wave. I can't understand most of what the mayor says to him, although he gesticulates a lot, which makes up for the strange words. Something-something horrible influence (on me, on Raisin). Something-something (other mayors?) would not up with this. Capitol retribution (on Kayta? on both of them?).

Apple runs up and hugs me tight, like she's afraid these "ruffians" from Seven might have hurt me.

A large truck snorts to a stop not far away- it can't reach us without pummeling its way through the underbrush, but I can see it and the thick-bearded man driving it through the trees. Tosca steps down and intercedes between Kayta and Mayor Bacon. "We have a schedule to keep, so let's get back on track. Scold him on your own time." She's ice cold. "…Unless you want me to report this incident to Victor Affairs. If you can't handle this man, I'm sure that someone else can, Temza."

He tenses up. Even Kayta seems to stand slightly more alert at this suggestion. The devil you know?

Apple leads me over to the truck, where Aulie brushes me of- there are pine needles in my hair. One of the cameramen films him doing this. They won't show any of this detour, obviously, so I wonder how he thinks they might cut it in. But I haven't watched any stop of my Tour footage in full. Maybe they chop all of it up into tiny pieces and puzzle them together afterward into something almost entirely different.

The mayor doesn't trust Kayta to drive his truck over to the logging mill we're going to tour next, so he tells Raisin to take charge of it. But Raisin doesn't know how to drive (she giggles nervously behind a hand raised over her teeth). Aulie volunteers himself to do the job, although he needs directions. He doesn't think to just ask Raisin to come along with him, but instead has her draw him a map. At a quick glance, it looks to me like nothing but triangle shapes and squiggly lines.

In the back of the big truck, Apple sits on one side of me and Tosca on the other, effectively blocking me from direct or unsupervised contact with the local troublemakers. When they're not paying attention, Kayta makes faces.

As a result of the time we've lost, I suppose, our visit to the lumber mill is very focused and perfunctory. Some paper mills and carpentry shops are pointed out to me, along with signs pointing in the directions of various logging camps.

The time for me to be put through the tortuous speech-making process coincides with the end of the school day. Perfect timing for Haakon's younger sister to come and hate me or despair or whatever it is she felt about me then and probably continues to feel.

Teachers and other employees of the school come to see. Shopkeepers and others who work in town (Raisin points out her mother) and a selection of workers from some of the nearby processing plants and factories who won a lottery to attend (I wonder whether or not they wanted to win that lottery- if they're losing money that would go to feed their families while they watch me smile and stumble).

I do have the opportunity to give them some honesty. "I completely understand if my being here rubs every one of you the wrong way. It came really close. If the Games were completely about skill, I'm sure Haakon Erikson or Meridew Alder would be our victor, because they were really good at doing the hard things the Games ask you to do. I couldn't have won if it weren't for Haakon. I mean, I wouldn't have won if not for the actions of a lot of people, but it was the goodness in Haakon that kept me alive in the very end. He wouldn't even have had to kill me. He could've just let the shark do it."

I think I have found his sister in the crowd. She's staring up me. Her eyes are blue and her lips are slightly parted. The knot in my stomach twists tighter.

"Correct me if I'm wrong…because I might be wrong. I never knew Haakon personally. We only interacted a little bit during training. But I think Haakon and I had some things in common. He and Meridew were a team, just like Beanpole and I. We needed our district partners to survive as long as we did. We valued some of the same things. Our friends, our family, our home districts.

"I'm going to tell you all the same thing I told Kayta when I arrived in Seven today. I didn't win because I was better than Haakon in any way. I won because Haakon was better. I hesitated when he did not. He was a good person."

I want to cry, but it seems wrong to seem to be crying over my own speech. It's not my words, really, but the thoughts they dredge back up. It's a shame that I wasn't able to know Meridew or Haakon. It's a shame that saying these things is all I can do.

The mayor makes a few kind remarks that don't really soak through my skin, then Kayta grabs the microphone for some grandstanding, trying to cheer people by reminding them that even though 7 didn't bring home a second victor this year, they were _so _close and maybe next year will be their year again (though what happened this year can hardly determine any of that because, while the general outline and goal will remain the same, all the details- the tributes, the arena, the challenges- will be different).

Haakon's sister is crying. What Kayta's saying won't help her any more than the things I said. The crowd seems to feel about the same. Kayta and I receive roughly the same amounts of applause. It makes me wonder about 7's relationship with their victor. Does Kayta say these same things every year? …And 1 might be completely different, but I know for certain that Jack _does_ say things of that nature every year, and it's been even longer since anyone from his district won. I have some thought (and investigating?) to do in the future about how I address my district.

Mayor Bacon invites a couple of elderly men onto the stage and they bring their musical instruments with them- some kind of flute that I'm not familiar with, a pretty stringed thing like a lute, and two fiddles. All combined, they make some very interesting music. Kayta hops down off the stage and convinces some kids in the crowd to start dancing. Raisin sits down on the stage's edge and claps her hands, turning and looking at me, encouraging me to join her. I don't think I could pick up this dance easily. I follow Raisin's lead.

Of course, Kayta doesn't let her off the whole time. As soon as the next tune comes around, he sweeps by and grabs her hands. "_Gehen wir_!" he urges her, grinning, "C'mon-_shiyou_!"

"Not for television!" she protests, "_Nein! Peinlich-shiiiii_," she drags out the last syllable petulantly.

"I would highly recommend that you take part," Tosca slinks down to sit on Raisin's other side.

"Ha ha." Compared to the many laughs I heard from her earlier, this one sounds force. "Oh, I am just playing hard to get, Ms. Snow." She lets Kayta tug her carefully down. "I meant to do it the whole time."

Based on the way she dances, I really don't see any reason for Raisin to be embarrassed. She's good. At first she's self-conscious and her eyes keep darting around in search of the cameras, but after a while she gets into it and I don't think any outside the bounds of the dance even seeps into her mind.

Eventually a dance comes around that Mayor Bacon thinks I could catch onto. It's partnerless, so I don't have to worry as much about tripping anyone else up or stepping on their feet. He waves over two little girls. "These are my granddaughters," he informs me. "Mimi, Chiyo, can you teach Mags the woodcutters' dance?"

I think they might be twins. They look very similar. I'm not sure which is Mimi and which is Chiyo. One is wearing a red dress and the other is wearing pink. I'd guess they're still a few years below reaping age. "Yes, _Opa_," they say, their identical replies overlapping (the one in red starts first).

I join them just in front of the stage. "This dance is easy," the one in red tells me, "Because it makes sense. It's like you're a woodcutter."

Of course, I know very little about being a woodcutter, but-

"First you put your hands together like this, and swing them across, see, you're cutting the wood."

"You do it twice," the girl in pink chimes in.

"Then, like this," the girl in red continues making the gestures for me as she describes then, "You put the axe aside. Then, pick up the wood. Reach down toward the ground and then up, across, over your shoulder."

"You're putting it in the basket on your back. It's not like a big, huge trunk."

"Then the other side. The, uh, left side. Right, then left."

"Then wave the back of your hand over your forehead! Right, then left! You're wiping off the sweat! Then you pick your axe up and start all over again!" The girl in pink is excited by the whole procedure and jumps up and down. "Try it! C'mon!"

"Try" is something I'm capable of. I certainly can't say there's anything the slightest bit impressive or graceful about it. The way the girls are laughing as I try to dance seems to back up my assessment of my questionable abilities.

"Never let anyone say that you're not a good sport," Kayta eventually makes his way back to my side to tell me.

"I've gotta have a few things going for me," I laugh.

He sighs and sticks his hands in his pockets. "Yeah, don't we all."

While the dancing is wrapping up, the outdoor area is rearranged for us to be able to sit and eat. The local cuisine seems mixed between completely unfamiliar things and items I can generally recognize or know in another form. There are dumplings with meat inside them, some kind of strange rolled cake with a very long name (Raisin tries to explain to me how they make it by pouring batter over a sort of spit, but I can't quite get the idea to solidify in my head), a bitter kind of tea, but also apple cider, a few varieties of sausages, and maple syrup, which I've never had before, but everyone here seems to make a big deal out of.

Kayta is obedient to the powers that be for the rest of our encounter, even passing up several easy opportunities to heckle the mayor during a post-meal stroll around town where he tells me lots of dull things about 7's various wood-related industries- dull because he already mentioned most of them earlier and he doesn't seem to have suddenly come up with any more exciting ways of passing them on. It's feels kind of funny to have a stop that began with so much- nearly too much- excitement wear down like a top spinning slower and slower until it finally falls down.

I ask Kayta if he knows how Haakon's sister is doing in general (not when I'm here making everything worse again) and he admits that he doesn't really know. Because Haakon was her only family, Kayta tried to give her a little money when he came home after the Games to help her out, but she's only fourteen and unless he actually took her in or something, there was no keeping her out of the district's community home.

"She's not very happy with Kayta," Raisin tells me, "And, you know, it's harder to help people who don't want to be helped."

I offer my services if either of them think of something later on, but, all the while, I know it's probably a lost cause.

Mayor Bacon doesn't leave town to head back to the station with my group, but thanks me there, "For being a very welcome guest." For what it's worth, I also offer him my best.

"I'll be seeing you Capitol-side," Kayta waves me off. "Have fun with the rest of this thirteen-ring circus."

"It was nice to meet you," Raisin also concludes.

"I have my work cut out for me," Tosca sighs to herself as she watches back some of the footage from 7.

"You like having it that way, boss," one of the cameramen counters.

"Heh," she chuckles, "I suppose you have a point."

The trees recede as I turn in for the night. In the morning, any trace of forests is gone.

I can see 6 coming long before we're officially within its boundaries. There's an orange-gray haze hanging over it and a stretch of clouds- more like one giant cloud of over-stretched wool, really- looming over its epicenter and reaching out in every visible direction. It's ominous. It's the place Sparrow (and Bailey) spent every day of their lives until the left it to die. I feel the same as I did when I asked Sparrow about it. There has to be something in 6 worth living for, but it isn't the scenery.

"Breathing that in can't be good for you," Aulie draws alongside me. "No wonder so many of the Sixes are such poor runners."

"They have two victors though."

"Teejay, if you recall, didn't exactly do a lot of running."

Sapped and sallow, Teejay's yellow-brown face appears in my mind as he looks roughly at this moment- these days. But I can remember back beyond that. How Teejay dug a pit as a trap. How he threw his voice (a trick he refuses to perform since, to much Capitol disappointment). He wasn't good at making his kills quick or clean, but deep pits - think fish in a barrel.

Mr. Bronze thought dehydration might get him before a showdown the way he kept throwing up. Teejay Atticus didn't run. He waited.

The first turning point in Sunny Lightfoot's Games came when she fainted exactly three minutes and thirty-four seconds after the gong rang. She had been ranked twenty-one out of twenty-four going on. While she lay in the clover, she jumped up to number sixteen out of sixteen. No one had paid enough attention to notice that she wasn't dead.

And, like her name promised, when she arose, Sunny could run. When she woke up she began to transform into an almost entirely different person. She acted progressively stranger and stranger until her eventual victory, at which point the consensus among my circle back home was that she was all but completely detached from reality.

The gap lasted longer between her win and her crowning than any victor before or since, but when they finally got her back in front of the cameras she was placid and pretty again and stated that most of the Games had been such a blur to her that she didn't remember the details. I don't know if it was brain surgery or pills or some kind of talking therapy that did it, but it taught me that doctors in the Capitol are _amazing_.

"Two victors to meet this time," I say pointlessly. Sparrow seemed to regard Sunny as nice, if not particularly helpful.

"It'll be your own miniature victors party?" Aulie guesses.

"You think it'll be fun? …Should I bring a host-and-hostess gift?"

"Maybe," Aulie grins.

"Hey," Spring comes to retrieve me to change me into my proper outfit for the day, "We have bright colors for you since it's so gray here. You're going to pop! It'll look great on camera."

"Okay," I agree, though I wonder what they'd say if I didn't. 'Fine, go do your own hair and wear your own plain clothes and not a dab of makeup?' I couldn't look worse than I did during the Games. I'm not beauty queen victor anyway. It wouldn't be one of those "hideous secrets" of stars caught without their makeup things.

The general theme of the outfit appears to be blue. A deep, cobalt blue, like the dress I wore when I was crowned victor. There are hairpins shaped like birds with little forked tails- swallows.

We have swallows in 4 for part of the year. They're migratory. They come into 4 (and parts of 1 and maybe 3, I think) and when they go…I don't know where they go. 11? That's the direction they take.

Victors are the swallows who go to the Capitol.

They go, they come back.

We slide to a stop in 6 and only one of their two victors is present and waiting for me- Sunny Lightfoot, in a lacy white dress with a daisy-shaped balloon in her hand.

She runs right up to me with her arms outstretched to hug me, but holds off at the last possible moment, which looks kind of comical. "May I?" she inquires. Her teeth are movie star white, stark against her syrupy skin.

"Uh, go on," I encourage her.

It's probably good that she asked because this is the kind of tight, overly-familiar hug that should come with forewarning. …She smells like medicine. Like talcum powder. Like laundry soap. Smells that, to me, mean "mother." …Not any mother. Mama.

I hold on, digging my fingers into the softness of her dress.

Apple taps me on the shoulder, which I think is meant to warn me that it's getting weird, but, oh- And Sunny hasn't tried to pull away.

I will be good.

I let go.

Mayor Cambridge, a sort of pudgy, middle-aged woman, comes up and gives me what I've come to see is sort of a standard issue "welcome victor" speech. This is one of the friendlier iterations I've been subjected to though.

In a sort of private aside with Sunny occupying the cameras' time with some chatter with Aulie and Apple where she seems to express some admiration of…something about me, the mayor even _thanks me_ for befriending Sparrow. "I hope you won't allow your experiences in the arena to prematurely color your impressions of Six," she says. It's practically an apology.

I shake my head, "No, of course not. I should be asking you the very same thing about Four and me. There's really no such thing as equal here, because I lived and she died, but, you know, I know, it's because of the Games. I didn't want to kill her and I don't believe she wanted to kill me." In the recap I was sure I saw it. So much hesitation. And that the darts went with some kind of chemical agent, not a deadly poison, she couldn't have known. It was just some sick Gamemaker's joke. She wanted to kill me quick, not horribly. She wanted to do it without having to look me in the eye.

"You victors impress me," Mayor Cambridge admits, "I think too often we don't give young people enough credit. …and then, on the other hand, we might expect too much." I can't say what's on her mind over this. The differences between Sunny and Teejay?

"We'll pick up Teejay at the hospital," Sunny approaches.

"Hospital?" my brow furrows, "Is he okay?"

"He's…" she lets out a nervous little laugh, "He's the same as usual. You could even say he's volunteering. …in a way. …Giving us experience."

"He's an addict, Mags," Tosca interjects, "Morphling. It's a big problem out here. Just don't mention it."

"But it isn't a bad thing to have to go to the hospital," Sunny speaks up again, like she thinks her remark will have unsettled me (do I look bothered?), "I help out there all the time. I didn't want to disappoint anyone if there were a change in schedule so I didn't mention it to any patients, but I think there are some people there who would be really cheered by seeing you."

She's sweet. I'm sure she's wonderful at the hospital. If her bedside attitude is anything like this, I know I would be cheered to have her taking care of me. (One victor needs care from the hospital, the other gives it- everyone comes out of the arena different)

It isn't far to the hospital. Unlike the doctor's place back home, this three-story building really does align with the concept of a hospital in my mind. "This is the largest medical facility in the outer districts," Sunny informs me, "Along with the this-and-that related to transport, building and maintaining cars and trains and special refrigerator cars and such, we manufacture medicine here."

That's where the prevalence of morphling addiction comes from, I guess. They're making it here. They're probably testing it here.

Sunny remembers that the balloon she's been carrying was meant as a present for me. "I can't make anything good like Pal," she admits, biting her lip, "I don't have any special skills."

"That doesn't matter," I insist, "It's still really nice of you." For now I give the balloon to Apple for safekeeping. I don't want to accidentally pop it.

"…Whenever I can," she says, "I want to be nice. I want to help people."

"You're great at helping people," Mayor Cambridge attests. "You've done a lot already, Sunny."

She smiles a little, but her face stays taut with worry. Maybe it's because all her tributes so far have died. Not that there's much she could've done about it, but it has to be harder when you're clearly so sensitive. She killed to stay alive and I look at her and imagine that she never wants to see another person hurt again. She probably thinks that she can never do enough.

I don't think there's anything I can say that will change things in a large way, but I might be able to help in the moment. "Sparrow told me you were really nice," I address Sunny, "She was right."

"…You talked about me?"

"I wanted to know what victors were like. What it was like to have a victor helping you out before the Games. And Sparrow was nice enough to tell me." She also thought Sunny wasn't very helpful, but that doesn't matter now. What this is about is that Sunny Lightfoot cares. And caring matters.

We walk up through a little garden of roses, mainly white and yellow, though speckled here and there with grayish dust, up to the doors of the hospital. I think Sunny is blushing a little, but she keeps turning her face further and further away from me when I try to gauge her expression.

I stop trying to look when I notice a tiny jerk in her chest and shoulders that makes me realize she might be crying. She might be trying to stop. To keep me from seeing. Both. Certainly the last thing I want to do is hurt her. The world has already hurt her enough.

A gaggle of nurses (something about their costumes, err, uniforms, reminds me of geese) swarm out of the doors with a wreath of carnations that they put on my head. They shake my hand and say hello and chatter at Sunny, forming themselves up around the two of us (if there were tears, Sunny has stopped them) and prevailing upon Aulie to snap several photographs of this arrangement.

"We had to come outside to meet you so that we could be loud," one girl, probably about my age, laughs. "When we go inside, we'll all have to be good and keep the noise level down."

"Of course," I promise.

"If you're willing, we'd like you to come visit the children's ward," another nurse, older, with the tiniest curls in her black hair, addresses me.

"We'll pick Teejay up along the way," the first girl confirms the unasked question implied by Sunny's open mouth.

"Mags," Sunny looks to me instead, "If you'd like?"

"Certainly," I agree.

I have to be stopped from holding the door open for the cameramen. "Go on in ahead!" Aulie laughs at me. "I've got this, dear!"

I catch sight of one of the nurses hanging back and possibly flirting with Aulie's favorite cameraman. …not sure if there's also something to "get" there.

Inside, the hospital echoes with many small, quiet noises. Some of the nurses break away from our group to get back to work. I wave at everyone I see, which I hope will be well received. Some people (some patients, some doctors, some presumably family of patients) wave back. Some people ignore me. Either way is fine with me. I guess the ones who don't wave just won't be broadcast to the nation (not to say that everyone who does will either, but-).

By the time we've reached the elevator (the first elevator I've ridden in outside of the Capitol), our group has narrowed down to Sunny, Mayor Cambridge, three nurses, and my people. Although we take the elevator just to the second floor, the ride makes me a bit dizzy. "I'm not used to it," I say.

"I'm sure I'd be worse on a boat," the mayor kindly backs me up.

Teejay Atticus is sitting in a folding chair in the hall, thumbing through a book that appears to be entirely photographs of Capitol cityscapes. "Hey, Tee!" Sunny makes a funny pointing gesture at him that's apparently friendly (I've never seen it before) and he looks up.

"Girls," he says. He smiles, but the focus of his eyes is kind of fuzzy.

"Tee," Sunny kneels down beside him and waves her hand back toward me, "This is Mags, remember?"

"Yeah," he agrees (remembers?), "Yeah. Mags, hi."

"Nice to meet you." I lean down closer to him. It's hard to know what to ask him. No one coached me on any special protocol though, so I figure I should continue to act normal. "Are you going to come say hi to the kids with us?"

"Nah," he shrugs, "I'm taking a break. Letting Sunny do all the work, unless, that is, you specially need me."

"Oh, well." I'm not going to press him. He does look pretty settled in and comfortable where he is.

"Now, if you have a good gumbo recipe you could pass along, that would definitely be appreciated and I'd have to be sure and pay you back properly," he muses. He yawns.

"Maybe you do?" Sunny gives me a funny look. We leave Teejay behind in his chair and pause just outside the ward door.

"Sure, but he doesn't have to pay me back for it." Does "gumbo" really mean gumbo in this context? Is this some kind of code? There's nothing for me but to keep on going as I have, but on some level, there seems to be something going on with both of 6's victors that I have absolutely no grasp on. They're both…I don't know. Something.

Whatever it is, the sick kids in the hospital ward aren't. I shake hands and look at crayon drawings and take photographs with them with the same hospital camera the nurses brought and Sunny sings a song about a train and fails horribly to teach it to me through no fault of her own. I learn that when Teejay comes, he blows up balloons and twists them into shapes- animals mostly. Once he made a train. A sallow-faced boy shows me a picture as proof. The general consensus regarding Teejay- not that I ask specifically, but some of the kids wonder about where he is- is that he is just as kind as Sunny, though often very drowsy and not able to cope very well in the face of any significant medical trouble.

Overall, there's an impressively positive attitude prevailing here. I hope it's not entirely unwarranted. I hope that the availability of medicine means they are getting what they need. The things I see- the IVs and machines and the thick charts I try not to glance at- tell me these sicknesses are serious. The reapings aren't the only way your world can come tumbling down.

Mayor Cambridge checks her watch. We wrap things up. According to the curly-haired nurse I can expect a thank you card from the kids in about a week or so (or however long it takes to get it to me- I advise that they send it to me via Apple to try and circumvent some of the extensive inter-district mail and transport issues- to the best of my knowledge, victors are the only ones who can even receive inter-district personal mail, although it's still subject to the censorship controls).

Heading out through the hospital by another path, I see tiny babies in incubators. Not that I know much about medicine anyway, but I would practically be afraid to hold them, let alone try and treat them. "They're born addicted," Sunny tells me. "It's when the mothers are using…"

"Oh," I whisper. I never knew such a thing. Even in my small visit, I have begun to see things that make me understand Sparrow's feelings about her home. 6 is a sad place.

We go out to our ride to find Teejay lounging in the backseat. "Time for the moment of shame," he sighs.

"Mind your manners, Mr. Atticus," Tosca scolds him.

"Ain't got nothing left to mind for," he shrugs.

Sunny's face pales. She climbs in beside Teejay and makes him sit up straight. "There's always something else they can use to hurt you," she says. She looks and sounds deadly serious. She makes room for me and I join her. Over my shoulder, I glance back at Tosca, who appears a bit smug.

"Onward then," Mayor Cambridge manages things with more dullness than before. My visiting is one thing. I don't imagine she relishes this either.

Unlike in the other districts, I arrive before the crowd. But I'm not meant to go out before the crowd. I sit down with Apple and Aulie at a little table. Apple pours me some juice. I sip it half-heartedly.

I offer some to the peacekeeper watching over us, but he politely turns me down.

Sunny and Teejay accompany their mayor out to…get in place? Set up the last few things? Irish is prevailed upon to come and put some makeup on Teejay because Tosca thinks he needs it.

I can tell that people are cuing up and taking their places (or just milling about- I don't know, maybe for the crowd there are no proper places) by the gradual increase in noise. I'm given a five-minute warning, then Apple, Aulie, and I are on deck until Mayor Cambridge calls for me.

On cue, I come out onto the stage and my companions follow me.

There are two chairs on the stage for Sunny and Teejay. Only Teejay needs the chair, but I think they're trying to pretend there's nothing funny going on with it by making them match.

Teejay's head is hanging forward. His eyes are closed. Maybe he's sleeping (I've been given the impression he sleeps a lot). He's resting at least (is he just cocky like Kayta and choosing to ignore the mayor?). Sunny reaches over- she tries to do this discreetly- and feels his wrist. It dawns on me that (Sunny is a volunteer nurse) it's for his pulse.

…What would happen if it turned out that Teejay Atticus was dead on the stage?

I don't get much time to indulge in these bad thoughts. Sunny gives a little sigh of relief. Teejay is fine, for certain relative values of fine. He's not dead. He doesn't require medical attention. The mayor can go on talking and I can go on half-listening, looking around at the crowd.

And then my eyes fall on him. There's a family to his left- a mother and father, I assume, three youngish kids- the family of Bailey, the boy who came to the Games along with Sparrow, that she didn't have any special feelings for (because she had the self-control to tamp down her feelings, to do the things that should've led to her victory). But it's not Bailey's father or either of his brothers who is the "him" that staggers me. It's Sparrow's father, a haggard-looking man, who might not have fifteen years on my father, but looks it.

He is standing on his own, but aside from that detail, he is very much like Teejay. His eyes are sunken. His face is pale-ish and yellow (Teejay's face has a strange tone, its originally earthy darkness altered by however many years of morphling abuse) and I wonder if it's drink or morphling or sickness or something else that's given him that look. It's not just grief for Sparrow. I can't remember all the details of what she told me in the arena, but she didn't regard him very highly. I have the impression he had washed out of mainstream life to a certain degree years before she was reaped.

But her death can't have helped any and he stares back at me with dark, searching eyes.

I'm worried that I'll never get those eyes out of my mind.

I stumble through my pre-written speech, botching it the worst that I have anywhere, although, fortunately, the bar for my speech performances hasn't been set very high. "Follow instructions" are my watchwords here, so I keep saying what I'm supposed to say and forcing myself to smile when I'm supposed to smile.

But Sparrow's father keeps watching. He can't take his cavernous brown eyes off of me.

As soon as everyone is politely clapping, covering up the smaller sounds onstage, Apple takes the opportunity to try and set me straight. "Mags, your expression is ghastly. What are you staring at?"

"That's Sparrow's father." I can't be so rude as to point at him, so I hope Apple will figure out who I mean.

"That sick-looking man?"

She's got it. "Yeah."

"Is there something you need to tell him? Because there might be the time to arrange it backstage." I love her for her willingness to hustle for me in whatever sort of ridiculous situation I get myself into (though maybe by Apple's standards, these situations hardly qualify as ridiculous- I can't say I have much of an idea what her average day is like when she's not running around with me).

"…I don't know. I'm not sure there's anything to say." The crowd is quieting and I stop speaking to allow the mayor her final few words before my reckless emotions are broadcast to the entire crowd.

I walk offstage between Apple and Sunny, following the mayor. Teejay doesn't get up and no one bothers him. We just leave him dozing there. I look back a few times, but no one comments on it and Sunny and Mayor Cambridge must certainly know him better than me, so…

I can't shut myself up about it. "…You sure about him?" I touch Sunny's shoulder.

"I can't carry him," she shrugs. "And I don't really have any authority over him anyway. I'll make sure the people from the hospital know where he is, but he doesn't have any family anymore either, so it's really…" She holds up her hands hopelessly. "All the help I want to give him isn't any use if he won't dial back his using enough to decide whether or not to accept it."

Apple turns back toward me, away from Mayor Cambridge. "She's going to get Avert, Mags."

"…that's his name?" I frown. I didn't say I wanted this. I'm not sure I shouldn't refuse it quickly and adamantly while I still have time, but at the same time…

"Av and I were schoolmates," the mayor volunteers. "…But, of course, he was different then." She tries not to make it seem like such a bad thing with her additional remark: "We all were, though."

"Where can I take Mags next?" Sunny smiles at the mayor.

"In the meantime? Anywhere on the approved list," Cambridge waves a dismissive hand at her and marches away to bring Sparrow's probably reluctant father to meet the girl who killed his daughter. Clearly, I have a bad habit of taking an interest in things I should let pass.

"Let's go watch 'em paint cars," Sunny suggests with vigor. The idea obviously appeals to her.

"And what kind of place do they do that, dear?" Apple regards her with calm interest.

"There's a big factory warehouse. I know things are different, like they do them special, for particularly fancy Capitol cars, we just put down the base coat and send them on to specialists in, I don't know, One maybe, but this is where all the regular district vehicles get done up." Her enthusiasm doesn't flag. "My da-" Until this hesitation comes. "A friend of my dad's used to work there." But this misstep doesn't entirely derail her. "When I was little, I would go watch them spray paint the cars after class. Me and…my friend, Rae Proudfeather. It was her dad who had the job there."

I don't get the feeling Mr. Proudfeather moved on to a better job. But I never know whether or not to broach these sorts of things with people. Even the mention of her friend gives Sunny some trouble. Maybe Rae is her Aoko, another lost tribute. Maybe Rae died some other way. Maybe they just aren't friends anymore. Coming home from the Games shakes up your relationships. We've talked, but it's not as if I've spent any significant time with Azzie and Tylina.

"Do we…walk there?" I venture down the safe path.

"We could, but," Sunny looks at Apple's teetering mock-fishbone shoes, "I think it'd be better to get someone to take us."

"I'll handle that," Apple trots off.

Sunny looks around, eying every camera to see that none are trained on us and, as a matter of fact, only one appears to be on, with Tosca directing the man in charge of as he takes some District 6 filler footage. For all I know, it won't even be edited into the Tour programming, but saved for some other time that it's needed. The Victory Tour isn't Tosca's only television project. Sunny turns her head sharply toward me and leans in a bit. I resist the urge to lean away in turn. "Mags, you know, I-" she starts to say.

There's a pause of only a few seconds as I wait to hear her continue, but it has the feel of a cautious eternity.

Apple waves to us to come join her. She's got everything worked out as quick as that. Mayor Cambridge probably left instructions with the driver anyway.

"…Don't give it any mind," Sunny looks into my eyes and then walks past me toward Apple.

But I do "give it mind." There's nothing I can do, but it doesn't stop me from wanting to know what she was going to say. I am even less content after this exchange than after expressing my reckless desire to meet Sparrow's father. I keep this to myself as we make the short drive to the car-painting factory.

"Hey, Miss Lightfoot!" the man at the door greets her.

"Hello, Harry," she smiles. "We're gonna show Mags how they do the cars."

"You should get them to let her paint one," he suggests.

"I would do a bad job," I insist, laughing.

He slides open the heavy door and lets us in. Aulie, as usual, hangs back to chat. A feel a pang of curiosity regarding what he discusses with all these unfamiliar people (men mostly) while I'm not around.

"Long time no see," a female worker calls to Sunny. She receives lots of other similarly friendly jibes as she shows me around. She fits in here just as well as she did at the hospital.

"I don't want this to come off weird, but I probably can't help it," I preface my feelings. "I'm really glad that you turned out okay after your Games. …Back home we weren't all that sure you'd be able to right yourself again after that."

She looks…not offended, but bemused. I don't understand why, but I'll take it. "Well, thank you for being concerned back then on my behalf. I needed some peace and quiet and tranquilizers for a while," she laughs at the tranquilizers bit, "And then it was important to come home and be left alone."

"Being home and having it be quiet was important to me too," I muse. It can't be said that our experiences were entirely dissimilar.

A couple of workers show us how they put racing stripes on some of the cars for local use just for the fun of it. They're not racing cars like the souped up things they seem to crash for fun in the Capitol, but there aren't any regulations against it. Sunny seems happy. "You're a good excuse to come here," she admits to me. "It brings back good memories."

"With Rae?"

"Yeah," she nods, "Rae got killed in a train accident before I came home from the arena. They told me it was because she wasn't getting enough sleep at night sitting up worrying about me having gone crazy. It was rough to find out about it. What I did in the Games was too much for my mom too. She had to be institutionalized, actually. But at least I was able to check her into a place in the Capitol where they'll take really good care of her. …So, there's a part of me that remains in the Capital…and a part of Rae that lives on in me."

Someone points out that Apple has walked through a spot of wet paint and is leaving yellow heel prints all over the warehouse floor. She looks befuddled. Workers laugh.

"I know I'm really lucky to have my dad," I deliver a terse reply, wondering. "…How did Rae's dad take all that sadness?"

"He quit his job painting cars. I think he was headed into the gutter really- didn't think he had anything to live for- but I hired him to come work as my gardener." She sighs. "He stayed out of trouble for a while. I thought he was doing okay. Then he jumped in front of a train and killed himself."

I'm silent. It's awful. There is happiness in District 6, certainly, but it's surrounded by grime in the sky and drug abuse and broken people and parents. "That's the father of your tribute I asked to see," I say.

"I know," she replies.

Apple rejoins us, having cleaned up her shoes and then taken a call from Mayor Cambridge. "I hope you ladies are hungry, because it's time for all of us to go eat."

"I let them put up a tent in front of my house," Sunny's demeanor reflects her name once more.

"What about Sparrow's father?"

"Ms. Cambridge said that he's agreed to eat with us. You shouldn't let it work you up too much, Mags," she fusses, "I hardly get the impression he's the sort to beat you up over it."

But he might have been a better father if he were.

"Harry back there is going to sell me some vintage rims," Aulie brags on our way to 6's Victor's Circle (the name informs the general layout of the "village").

"Harry's such a wheeler-dealer," Sunny rolls her eyes.

"It's a…good deal though…I think," Aulie answers.

There are four circular tables set up under the tent in front of Sunny's prim, Capitol-styled house. Mayor Cambridge hasn't arranged for Avert to sit at my table, so I go to speak with him while allowing other people to go ahead with their eating.

"You're a funny little fish," he looks at me. He doesn't frown; he doesn't smile.

"I'm really sorry about what happened to Sparrow." I realize I'm tugging on the fabric of my dress, so I fold my hands to stop myself.

He points at the swallow-shaped pins in my hair. "We didn't name her right, I guess. She weren't a swallow- she didn't come back. She were prettier than a sparrow though. It ain't your fault really. That she died. It happened in a bad way, but she did what nearly everyone here wants to do- she up and flied away."

"But," I stammer, "Sh-she was smart. She wasn't afraid to do whatever needed to be done. I probably wouldn't have even made it without her. She could've won."

"She could've," he agrees, "And in that case, it's beyond me to even imagine what she would've done. I never understand that girl too well. I wasn't too much of a father. But it's not your fault in any way that really matters. Where she's gone, they forgive. And in Six, the way to live is to forget."

"Are you going to be okay?" I think of Sunny's mother, of Rae's father.

"I'll be the same. I'll live. I'll try and forget."

This close he smells a little like liquor.

"You try and do the same," he brightens, albeit quite fractionally, "Thanks for the dinner. I love chicken fry."

"Take leftovers home then." What else can I do for him? I don't think he would accept anything more anyway. "If anyone asks, tell them I told you to. But," my hands have come apart and I worry the dark blue fabric once more, "I'm not going to try to forget. I won't think of it all the time, but I think it's important to remember. Someone has to. I'll remember everything that I can as long as I can."

I take a deep breath. "I think Sparrow would have done the same thing. …She was my friend."

Avert shakes his head. He may disagree, but he's not going to argue about it. "Thanks again for the chicken fry," he says.

I take my seat between Apple and Sunny. Teejay comes out from his house across the circle to sit at Sunny's right. The food is good. We talk and eat and enjoy the warmth of heaters lit against the chill of the coming night. Teejay falls asleep at the table with his face on his plate. At least he's emptied it first.

Sunny accompanies my group back to the train station even though she could've easily said goodbye to me on her doorstep. She scuffs her toe on the cement. "I wish I could ask to come along with you," she sighs.

"I'd take you if I could," I assure her.

"Not everyone in Six forgets, you know. I promise."

"Huh?"

"I…only listened in a little." She has the good grace to look embarrassed.

"Oh." I'm not all that offended. "Well, I figured as much."

"Take care of yourself. And your father."

Tosca is yawning as she passes us by. The cameras are all packed up.

"Thank you for everything-" I should say "Sunny." I say nothing instead. She gives me a hug. Remembering doesn't mean you mention it aloud.


	4. Part I, Chapter IV

I can hear the Woodcutters' Dance music from the moment I leave my compartment in the morning. It emanates from the sitting room (car? I can never decide about this), and I can hear it in the hall, in the dining car, and even on the tiny platform on the back of the train. When I go back into my compartment, it runs endlessly through my head.

Eventually, I can't put up with it anymore without saying anything, which is, of course, exactly what the instigators of this silliness wanted. Spring, Irish, and the youngest-looking cameraman, who seems to have befriended them, all laugh hysterically when I burst into the room, holding their poses, which capture one of the steps of the dance. "You want to practice your dancing with us?"

"J-just do me a favor and turn that down," I ask them. It would be different if they had just logged on to Capitol Net and looked up some generic recording of the music or a performance from some other time, but, again, of course they've found (or just have, via the cameraman) the footage of Mimi and Chiyo dancing while I struggle to follow their movements.

"You got it, boss!" Spring salutes me and reaches for the screen controller.

"Hey, you should watch "Events Enthusiast" today if you've got the time before we get to our stop in Five or while they're making you up or something," the cameraman suggests to me, "They've got a First Annual Hunger Games program on today that you might like. I've seen it before- it came out for the ten year anniversary of the Games."

"Wh-huh?"

"Because, you know, you like Jack," he explains himself, "I mean, I was only ten during his Games, so you were even littler. I thought maybe it would give you something to talk about with him."

It's a well-meaning remark, but… "Err, thank you for letting me know." I can't sure I'm sure whether or not I want to act on it.

I seek out Aulie and Apple's questionable expertise. "What do you think of the program 'Events Enthusiast?'"

"Enthusiastic," Aulie grins, unhelpfully, decorated teeth shining.

"What he means is, they have a positive spin on everything," Apple clarifies. "Which, frankly, is unrealistic, but it can be nice to watch things like that anyway as long as it's just for entertainment. It's not meant to be real news anyway."

"I see." This leaves me better informed, but still undecided. "…I'll eat breakfast in my room."

"Should I get someone to bring it in for you-?" Apple starts to get up.

"No, don't worry. I can carry it just fine." I know that even if I ask, they won't let me make it. That's the job of some Avox or other. I always hope my requests don't trouble them too much. Just because it's their job doesn't mean I have to make it hard.

I sit cross-legged on my bed, my tray balanced over my legs, stirring the bits of cinnamon spiced apple into my oatmeal, staring at the darkened screen across the room. It took some trial and error, but I was able to find and read a digital programming schedule. "Events Enthusiastic Remembers: First Annual Hunger Games" will begin at the top of the hour. Watch or don't watch?

Well. I can always turn it off, right? Cut myself short, just like Kayta's more detailed assessment of Jack which never reached me.

I turn on the show.

The host is a very bombastic young man with slicked back cobalt hair. Glitter sparkles on his eyelids when he blinks. It's obvious that, well, not that people in the Capitol were necessarily hugely excited about the Tenth Games, but that whoever's in charge of that kind of thing (the president? the Head Gamemaker?) wanted them to be.

No amount of later commentary can completely obscure how sparse and grim the First Games were. The tributes don't pass through the city in open chariots; horses pull them around in cages for the people to see. There's lots of shouting and it doesn't look pleasant, though this program has edited this out, allowing for the host to speak over it. Just as the Games are something lesser, the Capitol itself also shows the scars of the recent war. The people are dressed just the slightest bit less ostentatiously. In the distance I catch sight of damaged buildings on the usually pristine skyline.

More rebels died in the war than Capitol citizens. Double the amount, they say. District 13 was destroyed completely. But, to the victor go not only the spoils, but also the choice of whether or not to treat the losers with mercy.

We get to learn now how long the Capitol can hold a grudge.

The host backtracks to show segments of the reaping. The very first reaping. There are many more Peacekeepers in evidence than there are now in every district but 2. Which isn't to say that in 2 they're any less upset by the whole thing than anyone else. However, because of the eventual winner, the show is more interested in 1 than any other place. The man who comes to call the names- I'm not sure it's proper at this point to call him an escort- is tall and eerie in an outfit of black and blue with glowing white decorations. "Give us your sons," he recites some strange poem before he calls the names, "Give us your daughters."

Jack Umber is the first tribute reaped in the First Annual Hunger Games. In reality, this determined nothing. In retrospect, it seems strangely meaningful.

He doesn't appear to have any parents. People are upset, but no one makes any special fuss over the fact that it's him in particular. He walks up to the Capitol's go-between with that shocked, empty look, moving like he's under a spell, that has become so familiar in the years since. Many tributes ascend the stage like Jack Umber. There is little special about him here. He was younger than I am. He looks young. There's a childishness in his face that isn't there anymore. His green eyes seem much wider.

Those people in 1, who said little for Jack, cry and scream for the girl who is called. This was going to be hard from the start.

"Did you think you were going to die?" the host asks Jack in the present day.

"Every single one of us thought we were going to die. I mean, our lives were one hundred percent in the Capitol's hands. Even when I realized my last opponent was dead, I didn't know for sure that the Capitol would keep their promise to let the last one of us live." He wears such a mild smile while saying such a terrible thing. "I feel lucky everyday of my life."

Indebted. Does he feel like that? That's what bothers people a bit about him back home. They'd rather he act like his being alive today was a right, not a privilege.

But on some level, it is a privilege. The Capitol may not pick the winner, but they can chose to have anyone of the tributes be a loser. The arena is not a bell jar. The Gamemakers keep things going as it suits them. Maybe if you haven't been through the Games you can't understand that. They let me win. They let Jack win.

In a close-up shot from the presidential address on the night of the tribute parade, Jack is looking down at the ground. He looks tired.

The host goes on about how the Games have changed and "improved" in so many ways since then. How the tributes are coiffed and costumed beforehand and more elaborately uniformed after. How they get a chance to peek at life in the Capitol. How they're given an opportunity to train and be scored on demonstrated skills. How they're interviewed now, allowing viewers to gain some insight into them and become distinct for something not purely physical. Jack nods a lot, politely, as the host goes on over pictures that accompany all his talking points.

If they had done all those things at the time of Jack's Games some of them might've helped him. …Or they might have altered the playing field entirely. He might have died.

If Jack hadn't been the first victor, would being a victor be very different?

They move on to in-Games footage.

I stop eating.

The girl from Twelve purposely (it looks purposely) steps from her place before the countdown ends. There weren't bombs then. She's felled with a perfect (computerized?) sniper shot. There is no bloodbath. There is barely a stone-shaped marker to be considered a Cornucopia. There is only panic and pandemonium. There are no cross-district alliances- having had no cross-district interaction before this point, there is no foundation to build them on.

Jack doesn't even look at this district partner. He runs. He falls and scrapes his knee. He gets back up and runs again, not quite in his original direction. The girl from Eight runs into him and after they both stand, dazed, for a second, he shoves her aside.

I didn't remember these details.

I'm glad I don't remember the details.

I don't want to see Jack curled up on the ground in the dead leaves. I don't want to see him trip over the body of his district partner. I don't want to see him lose his teeth. I remember these things. They're enough. They're too much.

I don't want to see him (grapple, punch, bite, claw, struggle, strangle, cry) kill.

I turn off the television. I can't finish my oatmeal, but no one here is going to comment on it. I drop my plates off at the kitchen service window for one of the Avoxes to take care of. It's not much, but at least no one has to retrieve them from my room. I brush my teeth and try to think of something more cheerful. I can't go to 5 and be my normal self feeling like this.

I need to talk to someone. I go looking for Aulie or Apple and find Aulie first, alone now."We're within the borders of Five now," he informs me.

"A whole district that generates power?" I put the question to Aulie.

"That's the specialty," he shrugs, "Most of the power for the entire nation is generated in Five. I remember learning about it in school- they use wind and the sun and water to make energy. They're creative with what they've got, I suppose."

"It's a bit like Ten," I observe, "But rockier. Lots of space, not too many people."

"Lowest population of all," Aulie confirms.

On the way toward 5's town, I see one area particularly scarred by bombing. There are bits and pieces of buildings still standing. "What's that?" I point.

His mouth tightens. "The old town," he says.

The reason, maybe, for 5's low population.

"Is power really the only thing out of Five?" I wonder again.

"There's some engineering this and that. Some minerals. …I think they grow potatoes."

My mind goes immediately to an image of Shy Evert digging potatoes out of the dirt (I don't know the specifics of how they do it, but I do know potatoes grow underground). Of course, in my imagination, she makes it look like pretty everyday business, which, even if it's not some glossy Capitol version of events, is probably more glamorous than the reality. Anyway, Shy is a victor and her talent is needlepoint. I don't think she digs up potatoes anymore- assuming she ever did. I will think about Shy now, not Jack. I will stay as focused as I can on the visit at hand and its trappings.

My outfit for 5 is mostly white. A white dress with a little hood in the back. There are green leggings and tall black boots to go with it. When I pull the hood up, everyone laughs that the shape of my buns underneath it make me look like a mouse. They mean this in a nice way- that it's cute.

"Put up your hood," Aulie urges me as we walk out and onto the platform and are immediately buffeted to by a stiff wind.

"I don't know how much it'll help," I mumble.

"Oh, just put it on," Aulie pulls the hood up himself.

"Aaaaah," a tiny, breathy voice accosts me, "How cute!" Shy jogs up to meet me, her wispy blond hair trailing behind her in short pigtails. She's not as thin as she was when she won, though her many layers of clothes in whites and browns over a bright blue dress, add to that perception. "Mags!" she exclaims, "It's you!"

She reaches out toward me and when I hold my hands out, she takes both of them. "You're so little and cute!"

"And you're so pretty," I answer. Oh, she really is. Depending on your tastes, you could make a case for the looks of any of the female victors who came before me, but I like Shy.

"I hope that you like visiting Five," she keeps hold of my right hand, leading me along, "It's a kind of quiet place, but that never bothered me."

A tough-looking, middle-aged man approaches us, "Mike McRonsenburg," he introduces himself, tipping his gray cap to me, "Chief Engineer and, uh, mayor, I suppose. Welcome to District Five."

"Thank you for having me."

"We thought we'd take you on a little driving tour." He coughs. There's a bit of grit in his tone. His cough isn't the same type that Shy exhibited during her Games. I'm not picturing him spitting out blood at any moment. "I've got a work truck rigged up for it." He points over his shoulder with his thumb to where a sandy-colored vehicle is waiting. It has a large bed set up to seat, presumably, workers, more than carry a lot. There's a sort of yellowish tarp stretched over the top on a lightweight frame to serve as some kind of sunshade for whoever sits in the back. "There's not a lot to see in town, it's pretty dinky, but I don't think I'm exaggerating much if I say that Five's got some of the most beautiful natural scenery around."

"If I'm not wrong, I believe some of the land that lies within Five's borders was once a protected area on account of its rare looks," Apple pipes up.

"You are exactly right, ma'am," McRonsenburg replies, punctuating his response with a funny clicking noise made with his tongue.

Apple seems pleased to be right.

"Now, I'll be driving this truck myself, so there won't be any threat of funny business," he continues on and I wonder if this is a reference to the stunt Kayta pulled back in 7, because even if no one specifically informed Chief Engineer McRonsenburg about it our stop in 7 ran on television last night and I can't imagine that none of Kayta's troublesome wildness leaked out.

Shy gives me an idea of what they might have seen. "Mac doesn't drive like a maniac," she promises me. She's obviously pretty familiar with McRonsenburg to call him by a nickname.

"In the Capitol, people have to be properly licensed to drive a car," Apple tells her.

"Oh, Kayta'd surely fail that," she nods sagely.

Unscheduled trips probably didn't make the show, but reckless victor driving, why not? It probably fits right into Kayta's public image. He's freewheeling and that's appealing- in a certain way, to a certain demographic.

"So you up for it?" McRonsenburg asks. I guess if I didn't want to, he'd offer something else?

"Let's go," I cheer.

Aulie hops up into the truck first to help the rest of us up after him. I think it's partially practicality and partially showing off. Aulie is the biggest person here and he's in competition with McRonsenburg for the most muscular (it's hard to say between them, though there's a difference from McRonsenburg's worker physique and Aulie's workout nut style). One of the cameramen will take a seat up front beside McRonsenburg to capture the scenery and another will ride in the back with our small group. Aulie helps the man in back move his equipment; then gives a hand to Tosca. She's an imposing woman, but beside him, she seems less physically threatening- then she catches my eye and gives me a look that reminds me how little that part of the equation matters.

It's not fair, it really isn't, but I just don't like Tosca. She bugs me. Is it that she's smug? Because she is kind of smug. It's… I don't know.

Aulie practically picks up Apple, just to mess with her of course. "You big ox," she flails her hands against his chest. One of the cameras is (fortunately?) capturing all of this. I catch the cameraman's eye and he turns his lens toward me. I waggle my eyebrows and roll my eyes. There's some footage for them to play around with.

"Miss Shy?" Aulie asks for her.

"Oh, oops," she releases my hand and holds out both of hers for Aulie to grab. He scoops her up and her dress swings around so that I can see she has frilly bloomers on underneath, maybe on account of the cold weather. "Hee hee," she giggles, both feet (dark boots with spats) steady on the truck bed. "Let's do that again sometime," she smiles at Aulie.

"And then Miss Mags," Aulie yanks me up and rather than setting me down, swings me over his shoulder.

"Hey!"

He walks over and raps his knuckles against the truck's rear window. "We're all in and ready to go, Mr. McRonsenburg." The style team will probably join us for the later goings-on in town.

"Make him put me down," I pout in Apple and Shy's direction.

"But you look so cuuuute like that," Shy titters, "And, anyway, I saw you looking at my bloomers."

"Wh-what?! It was an accident!" My face must be bright red if the way it feels is any indication.

"I'll let you look again if you just ask me," she carries on, her voice almost painfully sweet.

"Everyone is picking on me!" I say. I doubt that sighing, giving up, and acquiescing to the madness would end this any sooner. This is the footage they're going to want- me fussing, me joking, me acting mock put-upon. …Will it provoke a response from Jack? It's not just Apple making things pseudo-difficult now. …I hope that Jack doesn't think much now about those long ago days. I hope that fame and television appearances and teasing me can form at least a smokescreen, separating those desperate days from his daily life these long years past.

Aulie puts me down. "Thank you," I mumble.

We settle down and drive off. Tosca sits beside the cameraman, out of the sight of our future viewers. The rest of us take the other side. We quiet down as the view opens up. There are hills and pine trees and lots of weather-shaped rock formations.

"You gotta tell 'em what they're looking at, Shy!" McRonsenburg yells out the window at the local victor.

"I'll tell 'em what I need to tell 'em!" Shy shouts back- not angry; still smiling. "I want you to be surprised," she explains more quietly.

I feel like Shy Evert is like the picture you see through a kaleidoscope, changing based on what you're viewing her through. What's acting and what's real? Or is it all real? People are complex. Who knows how many sides there are to her.

"We're going into the Upper Geyser Basin. I don't know how much you know about our geothermal activity…?"

"Not a lot," I'm honest.

"Good," she replies, "Good."

"…So I'm going to be surprised?" I feel cautious.

"Keep your eyes peeled in that direction," she points, "But don't worry. I really don't think you'll be able to possibly miss it."

"'Eyes peeled,'" Aulie repeats, "That's funny."

I know it when I see it.

Wow, do I ever. Water is shooting up into the air, white and frothy. It's like when waves crash on the rocks. Well, something like that. Because I've never seen water from the ocean streak up half as high as that.

And it's not just for a blink of the eye. Shy was right about not missing it. It just keeps going…

It soars and gushes for a good two or three minutes and my eyes must be huge as I watch. I know that I'm agape.

"That's Old Faithful!" Shy explains, when the water halts its explosive escape and we've all stopped gawking. "It's the most famous thing in the district, actually," she remarks, "Then me."

Of course, I knew about Shy and not Old Faithful, so, maybe that's the assessment of things within the district. "That's, uh, a geyser then?" The reality blows the simple definition of the word- all that I previously knew about geysers- out of the water. …Uh, so to speak.

"Yes, it's our most famous geyser, although down here there are a whole bunch."

"…that's really something else."

Shy nods. A brisk wind blows her hair around her face and tugs at my hood. Having it up hasn't been bad. "The world's a pretty amazing place."

McRonsenburg stops the truck and we sit and look down into the basin for a while and eat some weird sticky candy that Shy picked up at some place called the "Sign Shop" (it's a nickname, apparently, for the general store).

I figure now is as good a time as any. I turn away from the scenery to face Shy. "Hey, can I ask you something I've been wondering for years?"

"Go ahead," she invites me.

I've been getting a better idea of what the reality of the Tour is like versus the editing. I figure that as long as it's kept mostly private between me and another victor, anything they don't like, they'll just cut, assuming it's not subversive. I don't see how this could be. It's just curiosity about Shy's life. "You were really sick during your Games, weren't you? Did you get cured afterward?"

She seems like she expected this question. "Yeah, I had tuberculosis. If I hadn't won the Games, I wouldn't have been able to get powerful enough medicine to actually cure it. I was pretty sick. I'd probably be dead now. …But, instead, I'm cured."

"Huh." It was sort of what I thought, but I'm still impressed. In this way, I think Shy is an outlier among victors. Certainly there's a trade-off, but I don't get the feeling that Shy would have preferred things go the other way… I know this is presumptuous, but I think she's decided her life was worth it. "Well, I'm glad you're healthy."

"She's pretty awful ever since she got better," Mr. McRonsenburg laughs, "She comes over to my house and wakes me up at Six AM with soda bread to ask me to fix her radio before I go work at Power Control HQ."

"You told me I could come over any time the sun was up, Mac," Shy retorts.

"That I did!" he admits, "You were always such a quiet little girl though, Shy. I never realized that when you healthed up you'd be such a firecracker."

"I'm making up for lost time." She flops her head to the side, leaning it on Mac's shoulder. "You never know when your time's going to be up. You never know which cough is going to kill you and which is going to save your life."

I drag the toe of my boot through the dirt, drawing a rough, meaningless line. "My best friend at the time was the girl reaped into your Games."

Shy thinks about this. She lifts her head back up. "The same age as you? She must've been a pretty little girl."

"We were twelve then."

"She had black hair maybe? Braids?"

"Yeah, that's how she wore it into the Games. Back home she used to wear her hair, well, kind of like I do." She was reaped wearing the same hairstyle as me. It doesn't mean anything, it just is. She was the one who showed me how to put my hair up this way.

Shy pushes some loose strands of her pale hair out of her eyes, "I was feeling pretty poorly then, so I can't say I paid all the much attention to any of the tributes who didn't scare me stiff, but, yeah, I know which one she was."

"Her name was Aoko."

McRonsenburg looks uncomfortable at this turn of the conversation. "Is it true that you eat seaweed in District Four?" he asks me. "That's really what makes your bread green?"

"Yes, really," I snort at the strange, slightly pained look on his face.

"Wow, then. Same as you said, Shy, the world is somethin' else. People are somethin' else." He gets up, "Let's go hit Plant Five for a tour."

"I watched some stuff about Jack Umber and the First Hunger Games this morning," I admit to Apple and Aulie as we get back on our way. "I think it got me a little worked up."

"Never you worry about Jack," Shy speaks up, "Whatever happened to him back then, he doesn't do a single thing these days that he doesn't feel like- writer of his own story and all that."

I give a small shiver. I can't quite shake it off. "The First Games were really scary," I say.

"They were supposed to be," Tosca answers me. "The Games still are, but not just frightening, they have to be more than that."

"Hmm." It's interesting for her to say so.

The tour through Plant 5 is calm and perfunctory. Certain workers have been singled out in each sector to show me things. Apparently, those who were interested won the opportunity through a plant-wide lottery. A district-wide lottery won Plant 5 the chance to host me. I learn that there are twelve separate power plants (of a few different types) in District 5, along with Power Control Headquarters, where McRonsenburg is the boss. There's something amusing about this numbering scheme.

From Plant 5 we drive back to town.

The actual town that makes up the central part of District 5 puts me in the mind of a brighter-colored version of District 12. It might be somewhat less shabby or the people here just do a better job bothering to hide the worn-down parts from the public eye. There is a shop practically plastered in hand-painted signs. The name "Sign Shop" no longer seems inexplicable. There are tiny garden beds beside the doors of many of the living spaces, which seem to rise to a standard three levels. Laundry hangs out of windows to dry. I think multiple families probably occupy the spaces in a less oppressive version of what I witnessed in 8, 6, and 3. There's a ramshackle stage set up with a plain sheet for a back (backdrop?) and a ring of folding chairs around it. For all that it gives me the impression of being thrown together little more than a day ago (if not a few hours before my arrival), it is interestingly designed.

"The boy didn't have any family," Shy tells me dryly as we stand behind the stage, blocked from view by the sheet as the cameramen find their places and McRonsenburg tests the microphone. "The girl had an assortment."

I don't know why she doesn't say their names. The girl was Laurie Tart. I never learned the boy's name.

"You just take it easy and you'll be all right, you know," Shy gives me some sort of advance, I suppose.

"I'm trying," I shrug.

A bell rings somewhere in the distance, summoning people maybe, or marking the time.

"Now…hmm," she puts my hood back, "You need to let everyone see your face for this." She leans in close and smooths my hair. Her fingers are soft where they brush my face. "That'll do it."

Another bell rings, closer.

Chief Engineer-slash-Mayor McRonsenburg gets things started and calls for Shy, who takes the stage to a tiny fluttering of applause. When I follow, I am greeted somewhat more fitfully.

As Shy said, there's no one for the boy, which isn't to say that he'll be quickly forgotten. He probably had friends. And there they are, Laurie's mother, her aunts, the brothers she played rough games with. They regard me with cool interest. I was played by Sparrow pretty much the same as Laurie. The only difference was the Sparrow liked me better, which translated into being less willing to see me hurt and to keeping me around longer. Laurie probably would've been better served to stick the Games out on her own.

My performance is especially self-aware, probably as a result of having Jack on my mind, which is both for the better and for the worse. I speak better than I did in 6, but I feel hyper-conscious of all my small awkward tics.

Afterward, Shy and McRonsenburg both compliment me on how I did. A table and chairs are set up on the stage and we eat there, with much of the town eating and hanging around just below us in the chairs. Some of the people come up to ask me questions and make remarks, which the powers that be (Tosca, Apple, McRonsenburg) allow. Someone tells me I should've allied with Laurie instead of Sparrow. "For my sake or for Laurie's?" I respond, which garners a bittersweet laugh.

Understandably, Laurie's family doesn't stick around for any of this.

Shy is pleasant enough company. She tells me about some of the things she's done in her visits to the Capitol- window-shopping, seeing the ballet, visiting a botanical garden. Once she met up with Jack there. They saw a movie and he bought her a pair of shoes. "I've only worn them twice though," she admits, "They just seem too nice to just wear on an ordinary day around here."

McRonsenburg and Aulie get a bit drunk together and McRonsenburg tells Shy how much he loves her "just like" how he loved her father, which is the point at which she thinks we need to go home and let the volunteers start cleaning up. "In any case," she hugs me, "It was great meeting you. We'll have to do something together in the Capitol next Games season if we have any free time."

"Yeah, of course," I agree. I don't know what being in the Capitol with free time is even like. It would be good to have someone who's willing to spend time with me and give me an idea of what I can do and what to expect.

"You had a nice time in Five, didn't you?" Apple remarks back on the train, taking out her earrings to begin what must be the rather complex process for her of getting undressed and un-fixed-up to go to sleep.

"Compared to some of the other places I've been, it was kind of relaxing." Not as relaxing as it will be when I'm back home and all this rigamarole is over though. Although I'm aware that as a victor, my life will never been quite as low-key as it was before, I can see that as the years pass, things probably will fall into some kind of pattern. Whether things will work out well or not is a combination of factors, like in any other situation. There's what I do, what happens outside my control, and what my attitude is in facing it.

"Well, here's hoping for more relaxing stops on our Tour," Apple pats my shoulder and heads off to her quarters.

Despite having been pinned up and even covered with the hood for half the time, my hair has managed to work itself into some tangles. I fight with it for a while before giving up (I'm just not in the mood for this) and going to sleep.

I dream that Shy and I are shopping in the market back home. I buy some ordinary groceries. Shy wants to buy some kind of local jewelry and keeps asking me questions about how the various things are made. She picks up a coral pin, a bracelet with pearls, a woven headband: "Does this come from the ocean?"

I wake up homesick.

"Detour to Four on the way through?" I suggest, although I don't seriously believe we would do it. I'm just joking around. We could head south from here. If we just kept going long enough, eventually we would reach 4. Eventually we would reach the ocean.

On the ocean, I don't know how far we would have to go to reach someplace else. There's a certain distance no ships go past on purpose. It's not just illegal, it's dangerous.

There's a saying at home though. That staying in the harbor isn't what ships are made for.

"I know you're missing your father and all, but you know how the trip goes," Apple says, "We're more than halfway through."

"I know." I lean my head against the window. It leaves a smudge on the glass. I don't think Apple likes it when I do that, but I'm not doing it to bother her. I have to tell myself more seriously to stop.

"We're going to watch the rerun of your stop in Six, Mags," Spring waves her hand, inviting me to come join them.

"Want to watch?" I ask Apple. I'm not sure I'm really up to seeing 6 again so soon. Also, I know that I'll undoubtedly watch and be horrified at all the dumb things I said and did there.

"Let's watch the Fall Fashion Gala instead," she counters.

I think my eyes bug out a little.

"You and me," she insists.

I think she knows. I think she understands. My mouth doesn't close quite all the way. I nod very slowly. I point back at Apple as I turn toward Spring. "I'm gonna…watch that. With Apple."

"Okay," Spring lets me go just like that, "Have fun."

This is the first time I've been inside Apple's compartment on the train. It suits her. There is lots of green (though not only green- there are light purples and whites and tans utilized in the color scheme) and many small bangles and knickknacks hung and pinned up here and there. Apple seems to travel with very many things, but this seems like her.

We sit together on her very puffy bed and she cues up the fashion program from her TV recording device. It aired at an inconveniently late time last night for our purposes. Back home in the Capitol, she would probably have stayed up for it. Maybe she would've watched with friends or her sister.

On the way to District 3, Apple watches with me.

"Oh, I like that one," she says. And, "what a funny shade of yellow." And, "I don't know, I think I'd be afraid that the top would fall off and that would so embarrassing." Not too much, just short comments here and there.

I try to get immersed in it, but I don't know much about fashion and I don't want to ask questions I don't mean or care about just for the sake of asking.

When the program is over, Apple switches over to some celebrity news fluff. There's a pretty, almost obsidian black-colored actress (honestly, her skin, hair, and the irises of her eyes are all this eye-entrancingly deep shade) on holding a white cat. She's talking about the zoo that's just opened in the Capitol funded largely by her generous donation. This zoo is meant to replace one that was heavily damaged in the war.

I hear a funny chime and look around.

Apple touches her comm-tablet device (I still can't get the proper name to stick), which was apparently the source of it. "Well," she tells me, "Time to get dressed for your excursion into Three. That should be interesting."

"They're all interesting," I agree. …though whether that's strictly a _good_ thing…

I catch a glimpse or two of the outlying lands through the window as we head into 3. It's one of the smaller districts, I know. The area where people actually live and work is condensed well. I'm not sure whether this land I'm seeing now is technically considered a part of 3 or not. There are various wilds in between some of the districts, while others do actually meet more or less at their borders (though the edges of the districts are largely empty, there are less than fifty miles, for instance, between us and 11 at our nearest point).

The Capitol wants us fenced in within whatever district we belong too. It's just that some in some districts you can go further without seeing the fences. I don't remember when the fences when up exactly, but it was within my lifetime. Before that, people traveled. My mother traveled.

There are a few people waiting to meet us when we arrive, but their victor isn't one of them. The man in charge steps forward after allowing us our short dramatic for television (maybe?) walk through the station and introduces himself as the person in charge here- Ohm Merritt, the mayor of 3, who is visibly the youngest head of a district that I've encountered. I would guess that he's about thirty. Clipped to the sides of his plain black glasses are a variety of strange lenses and other attachments. For magnification? "It's my pleasure to welcome you to District Three, Mags," he shakes my hand.

"Thanks for having me," I say, because something can be a pleasantry, but still be the right thing to say. They have to have me, but it doesn't have to be gracious.

"Where's Beto?" Tosca asks. There's definitely suspicion in her look, like she has some particular reason for this omission in mind.

"He's back at his place, working," Mayor Merritt breezily whisks her question away. If he thinks he knows better than Tosca, he's probably right. Beto is of this district. Ohm Merritt is the one who has to live with him.

"We'll pick him up later." He's firm about it. Tosca swallows this down with a sour look. I can't quite figure out why it is that I have no desire to figure her out when I've wormed my way (purposely or not) into getting to know so many other people around me. She's probably a perfectly fine person. She's just not my sort of person (and that's okay- just because you should be nice to everyone you can doesn't mean you have to like them).

"I composed several variations on the basic itinerary and ran all of them through the official channels," the mayor looks back down at me, removing three sheets of paper from an unusual metallic-looking clipboard, "Therefore, feel free to pick whichever one you'd prefer to follow on your visit here."

I accept the sheets of paper and skim over their contents, but I don't know how I should choose between them. One laboratory and one factory are much the same as any others to me. I have no special mechanical or technological smarts, nor, necessarily any inclinations toward one output of such of another.

I look over my shoulder at Apple and Aulie, hoping that one of them will take discreet notice of my discomfort and assist me.

Apple, smiling, becomes my rescuer. "Ooh," she reaches over my shoulder and gently lifts the pages out of my hand, "The Songbox development facility? We'd love to see that."

She presses one of the papers back into Mayor Merritt's grasp. "I think this will do nicely."

"Thanks," I whisper.

"At your service as always, dear," she pats my shoulder.

The mayor's personal driver, a really big, blue-eyed man, chauffeurs our group from the train station into the labyrinthine depths of 3's multi-storied clusters of homes and schools and places of work. I'm afraid if I were asked to find my own way back to the train station after all the twists and turns our path takes, I would be completely lost. The buildings and streets seem cleaner than their rough equivalents in 6 and 8 though. Whatever rougher side 3 might have, they hide it away, off their main thoroughfares.

Through our visits to the Songbox facility (I learn they make some kind of miniature music player that's very popular in the Capitol- Aulie and Apple each have one), some place where they're doing a lot of heating small pieces of metal together (soldering? soldering.), and a special school of some sort, where I think my appearance may have been won by the students via a contest (from the way they keeping point them out to me, there seem to be many schools in 3), Mayor Merritt carries on all kinds of overlapping conversations with workers, plant heads, teachers, Tosca, Apple, and Aulie that I can barely understand. If I had grown up here, it would be different, I suppose, but were they to invite me right now, I'd definitely be too dumb to be of any special use in 3.

Meeting up with their victor, Beto Ernst, does nothing to ease my feelings of tacky inferiority. He addresses everyone else before me and little of what he even remarks upon to these other people is straightforward. Over a dark suit, he wears what I recognize from television as a "lab coat." He's a strange mix of dressed up and disheveled. I'd like to guess that he got dressed up like this because of my visit (maybe he was told to- I'm not sure he strikes me as the type who cares much about appearances), but didn't see that as any reason not to spend time working until he was forced to meet me.

"Hello. I hope that you are operating within your preferred parameters today, Mags," Beto says blankly. He holds his arms and looks at me over the tops of his glasses. …I am expected to reply, of course, but how…?

"Hi." What is there to do but act as I always do? "It's nice to meet you." It would be wrong to assume off the bat from what I've seen on television that Beto and I are unlikely to have much in common or that he's going to be hard to connect with. Everyone deserves the benefit of the doubt.

"Yes," Beto responds unreadably stoically to my words.

Tosca sighs and makes some kind of motion to her cameraman, which means something like "Cut the cameras," no doubt.

I am undaunted. "District Three seems really advanced. Such a smart guy like you is obviously a perfect fit here. I bet all the kids look up to you."

"I am…" he struggles, "Figuring infrequently in the local public eye."

"Why don't all of us head on over to the stage set-up and you two can talk more along the way?" Mayor Merritt suggests benevolently. "We'll keep it short, Beto."

"My stuff's on ice," he remarks. He shrugs. We squeeze back into the car together.

"I heard that you kept on going to school after high school? In Four there isn't any school after high school, although I know some people who studied in other districts before the fences went up- some teachers and stuff. Someone told me you're writing a book?"

"Yes," he answers shortly.

"I love to read," Apple tries to bolster me as my words sink into the quagmire of Beto's thoughts and seemingly disappear, "Especially romance novels. …I imagine you're not writing fiction though, Mr. Ernst."

He shakes his head.

"After his Games, Beto went on to receive a doctorate in mechanical engineering," the mayor tells us over his shoulder.

"It's the most advanced degree you can get, dear," Apple informs me.

"For engineering, you must be smarter than all the rest of us in this car put together," I smile.

"…Ah," his shoulders lift and fall again.

Well, flattery is clearly not the way to Beto's heart.

I am not feeling particularly comfortable as I go onstage with him. He points at the families while Mayor Merritt tests the microphone. "Ada. Petey."

Ada's mother is already crying. I look at her; I look away from her. I stumble through my pre-prepared speech. This is not one of my best performances. District 3 doesn't seem to care much over all. They give me my token applause. It's a subdued district. People probably just want to go back to their homes or work.

It doesn't mean that they're not upset though. These are smart enough people to know that getting mad at me is basically useless and getting mad at the Capitol might be useful in the long run, but in this moment would only be a death sentence.

I receive precisely the proper amount of polite response. Maybe someone here has calculated a formula for it.

Beto makes only one broadcast comment before the ceremony is concluded: "District Four gets their turn. Every district gets the victors they deserve. Enjoy," he gestures toward her, "Mags Gaudet."

People clap just as mildly for him as for me. Mayor Merritt makes some concluding remarks and then ushers us from the stage.

There are strange, entertaining lights set up all around the table chosen for the celebratory meal. They blink and flash and flutter in strange patterns and colors (and shapes- the flashes of light seem to make shapes and I can't imagine how), but never entirely disrupt the pattern of illumination. It's mesmerizing. I do the slack-jawed yokel thing I usually save for the Capitol and stare for a while over my place setting as I'm served.

I am seated beside Beto, as is expected. He seems content to ignore me, but that doesn't suit my style of manners. I decide that I should at least try and talk to him."So, what have you been working on? I heard they had to get your out of some kind of workspace you have in the basement of your house to come and be part of the ceremony. I'm sorry I had to interrupt your day like that."

"Speak. More. Slowly," Beto punctuates each sharp word with a jab of an ink or oil-smudged finger. There's something weird about his eyes that I was never able to notice on TV, or maybe it wasn't there before. I can't tell exactly what it is- an eye problem? The too long at sea thing?

I backtrack on the matter of what I'd like to say. Beto has a strange way of talking that isn't entirely consistent with the district accent (he never tended to speak overmuch on air), but he seems to think pretty much the same of mine. I don't think it's just speaking too fast on my part, but slowing down could help. …I begin to wonder if he's understood much of what I've said to him since getting here at all.

"How's life?" I try.

"I'm trying to become Dr. Frankenstein," he says. His weird eyes stay weird as he fixes them on me, hoping that I will glean something of…importance? Something meaningful, at least, from his statement, but…I have no idea what that means.

"You…want to be…who?" I really don't want to come off rude about the whole thing. I do want to understand him, but I must be missing a significant piece or two in this equation. It has something to do with the culture of District 3, maybe. A person Beto knows that I don't, here or in the Capitol. A song maybe. A story.

"If you don't know, you don't know. You wouldn't understand," he sighs.

"Sorry," I say. What else can I say?

"Not your fault," is the kindest that Beto can offer me.

He doesn't say anything to me for the rest of the meal, but he doesn't say anything more than "yes" or "no" to anyone else either, so this hardly counts as some terrible snub.

Instead I talk to the other district people who, via whatever available luck or favor, snagged the seats closest to me, breaking up my team around the strangely-shaped black table. There are black place settings that I initially take as abalone-set, but turn out, on further inspection to be studded with tiny bits of electronics. Do they do something or are they just decorative?

Fez Merritt, the brother of the mayor, tells me about the girl who designed them. They were intended as a clever way of recycling some of the pieces that didn't contain any hazardous components. Their designer died in the Ninth Games. She was eighteen. Fez's fiancée.

From the further remarks spurred by this topic, I get the impression that there are population-related troubles in Three. The promise of Hunger Games after Hunger Games without end is at odds with a desire to keep up a population damaged by the war. To a greater or lesser degree, I imagine every district has to wrangle with these issues. The odds are going to be worse for the post-rebellion generation. Less hope, less kids. I can see what the Capitol wants from Kayta and Raisin. Celebrity children from a district, not the Capitol (they already show off Capitol ones- it hasn't been enough).

Eventually Beto speaks up enough to be allowed to beg off from the rest of the meal. Based on the little amount he served himself and all that's still left on his plate, he has barely eaten. Mayor Merritt allows him to leave. The requisite footage has been recorded, I suppose, and he's not the best of company.

"Who's 'Frankenstein?'" I ask Fez, or anyone else who cares to answer me.

"Mad scientist," a bespectacled woman pipes up, "It's a story."

I'm afraid I don't understand the conventions of a "mad scientist" as a character. "Beto mentioned it," I begin to explain and the woman seems concerned by this, but Apple interrupts me to direct my attention to the arrival of dessert, an elaborate cake decorated with tall candles that remind me of sparklers. It's colorful, glittering, and gorgeous. District 3 certainly knows how to put on a stylish little party.

The recorded music they've been playing is interrupted by an old man performing with a strange electronic instrument sporting an antenna- I would never have guess it was a musical device if I weren't hearing it myself. He waves his hand over it and somehow it makes a not unpleasant sound.

"Theremin," Fez informs me.

"Can you dance to it?"

He laughs. "If you want, you can."

It would be good to get up and relax. It's something I can do that is like me. At least that's what I think. It's like the me I've been showing Panem, isn't it?

I get up and offer Fez my hand. "Shall we then?"

"What?" he's surprised and laughs, "Me? …that wasn't what I expected."

"Well, wouldn't you like to?" I think he would. It couldn't hurt him.

Fez takes a deep breath. "Sure," he rises from his seat, "Let's dance."

Of course, I don't know the music and I'm not exactly graceful, but Fez doesn't seem to mind. Aulie gets up and tries to get Apple to dance with him too, but she acts reluctant (her face turns red and embarrassed), so he tries to support us by attempting to clap to the beat of the music. …He doesn't manage much better than I do with my dancing.

"If we get the victor we deserve, apparently Four deserved much better than us," Fez tells me as he walks me back to my seat.

I bite my bottom lip. I can't speak to this. I can't judge Beto. "You never know what will happen next. And the next one is bound to be different."

"It should've been Dasha," he says.

I understand then. It's not just Beto's personality (or however the Games warped it). It's his fiancée. She died the year Beto won. Who can say whether she could've won in Beto's place- she might have been just as doomed if he hadn't been there. I want to know, but can't ask, if he killed her.

"Well," Apple comments as we are packed up, bringing our night to a close, "You seemed a little apprehensive earlier, but Three turned out all right."

"Mags can get through anything," Aulie avers.

Apple and I exchange an indulgent look. We'll let Aulie think what he wants to think. He gives me too much credit.

"I try," I shrug. A yawn comes out.

"Now you mustn't run yourself into the ground," Apple scolds me a bit, "I don't want you going home to your father unwell." It's funny to know that she's thinking of him. It's impossible for me to imagine Papa being romantically interested in anyone, let alone Apple, but her feelings don't bother me. Papa is a likable person. It's nice to see an adult appreciate him without feelings regarding his lack of overt active participation in the rebellion coloring things. Some people say that everyone in the Capitol hates us, but that just isn't true. Things are more complex than that. The hate goes both ways.

…All ways really. The districts weren't as united as they thought. Within any given district there can be just as many fault lines. How united could anyone consider Kayta Hiro and Temza Bacon? Beto Ernst and Fez Merritt? That Mrs. Mirande is for and not against me is the exception and not the rule. That Kayta and Raisin and Pal and Shy would all befriend me is a deviation too. People are allowed to like me when toleration is the norm.

I can't say I'm understanding all these things correctly, or even thinking right, particularly considering the late hour. Right or wrong, maybe what's most important is that I'm considering them.

Serious thoughts are not in my foremost thoughts when I awake on the train in the morning drooling on the pillow.

There is nothing elegant about me.

This theme continues when I meet up with the rest of my team to find that the presentation of my visit to District 3 that will air tonight is being previewed on "Umbercover," Jack's weekly segment on "Morning Rainbow," a sort of unrealistically chipper news and entertainment program that has become the universally agreed upon thing to watch each morning after breakfast is cleared away and a miscellany of light work and hanging out goes on. I'm not sure "Morning Rainbow" is anyone's favorite program, but apparently it's the kind of thing that's hard to hate.

Jack's "undercover" activity of the week involves "sneaking" into an editing booth and watching some footage of me in District 3. "Ooh, dancing," he says into the camera, then scoots aside a bit so everyone else can see. The half-length black cape and the dark blue skirt of the outfit from my visit there swing and sway about as I awkwardly attempt to move along with the theremin music.

"Surely the most graceful victor of them all," Spring teases me.

Jack tries to copy what I'm doing onscreen a bit, then stops and shakes his head. "I haven't got the D-Three jam," he says like it's something regrettable, but he's quick to brighten, "When she gets to One, though, don't worry, folks, I'll teach that girl a step or two."

It cuts back to the hosts of the main program, who joke about Jack wanting to see me so badly that he can't even wait until tonight to watch the Tour when it airs properly. They move on to interviewing a very young-looking girl with purple-blue eyes who is starring in a movie that's just about to open.

"Lemme do your hair," Irish sits me down and begins work on an elaborate "fishtail" braid style that starts on high on the top of my head. In the end, it will still end up twisted into two buns, one on each side of my head, though. The style team are masters of variations on a theme.

"I've been to District Two before," Aulie pipes up.

"What? Really?" Apple seems surprised.

"As a matter of fact, one of my great-grandmothers was born in Two." He seems kind of proud. "That's where I get my healthy attitude."

It stands to reason that the people of the Capitol have mixed with the districts at some point during the history of Panem, but this is the first time I've ever heard any Capitolite claim district ancestry of any sort. It's interesting. "Is there anything special you want to tell me about Two then?" I ask.

"The mountains are lovely, but nothing special immediately jumps out at me," he shrugs, "I assumed I'd just be leaving it up to Hector and Gerik and whoever's in charge around there these days to show it off to you. …Maybe someone will put a pick in your hands and see if you can manage to mine any good silver out of the rocks." He laughs.

"You'd be better cut out for it than me!" I protest.

"Hold still!" I wince as Irish pokes my scalp with a hairpin. "I've got four more of these to get in there before I'm finished." The pins are silver and end in green jewels shaped like tiny fish.

"You're all a bunch of firebrands," Tosca enters, unimpressed.

"It's more fun this way," Apple tells her. I get to feel pleased over Apple's response. The stylists, Aulie, Apple, and I all together make a team- between us there is some definite solidarity. Tosca is just here to record things.

"You mind yourself in Two, young lady," Tosca eyes me suspiciously.

"Of course," I answer. I don't plan to make trouble anywhere I go, although I can't claim to be perfectly good and loyal to my handlers' every whim considering how I went off with Raisin and Kayta in Seven. But I don't want to make people upset. I don't want to get in trouble. I want to feel at home in these strange places. I want to make friends. …Did I do something in Three that she didn't like and I just don't realize it? "Is there a problem?"

She twitches her nose. "No, I suppose not." She's still annoyed about something, but I guess she isn't going to tell me about it. Maybe it has to do with something else entirely.

Lunchtime comes before we reach our destination in 2. I get to pick what I'd like to eat and I give one of the Avoxes a very precise description of what I would like on my tuna sandwich, hoping that being so specific doesn't cause them too much trouble and that I don't sound too stuck up either. If the sandwich came back wrong, I wouldn't complain, but it doesn't. It's just as I asked for. Mustard (a kind of fancy type, I think) drips out on my fingers. I have to be careful to avoid getting any on the book I'm borrowing from Aulie. It's an adventure story- a really old one about a boy who gets up to all sorts of shenanigans in the small town he lives in with his friends. Aulie says there was a sequel focused on the protagonist's friend, but it's harder to find copies of because it was considered more controversial at some points.

Aulie reads too, a romance comic printed in dark pink ink. Apple isn't above teasing him over being hooked to a publication that is apparently aimed at teenage girls. She spends her free time playing a puzzle game on her handheld computing device (I still don't know exactly what it's called), then leaves us for her personal compartment to call someone. She says it's her sister, but when she's gone, Aulie tells me he thinks she has a boyfriend now, or at least a crush. He's heard her talking on the phone to a man two times on the Tour when she thought she was alone.

I don't see why she wouldn't tell me about it if she were, but I can't quite discount the possibility that she's been talking to my father. I'm not sure I should run the 'Apple likes my father' theory past Aulie either. The two of them have a tendency to get pretty sharp with their teasing and I don't want Papa drawn into that (not that he would engage in the same pettiness, but he's hopelessly outclassed).

"You're just jealous," Erinne counters Aulie's assertions.

"No, we can't all be so lucky," Spring bats her eyelashes.

Aulie gets huffy, a sign that Erinne's remark has hit home, and sinks lower into his chair, hiding his painted face behind the comic.

"Time to get properly dressed," Spring urges me up away from my book and the final third of my glass of lemonade, so I can change out of my casual personal clothes into whatever outfit they've put together for me to sport in District 2. It turns out to be a gray and green ensemble, complete with gloves and a scarf.

"District Two is going to be one of the colder stops," Erinne notes.

Aside from 11, they've all seemed pretty cold to me, but I suppose the Capitol, being up in the mountains and further north, must be colder on average than 4. …And even regardless of what we're used to based on where we grew up, I could also just be a wimp about the cold. This is probably true.

The style team is happy with me for not managing to mess up my hair to any significant degree in the time between Irish's fixing it and now. They give me one last one over and I go to look out the window and watch our approach into the center of 2.

I missed our passing through the mountains (or maybe we did most of it through tunnels like when you go to the Capitol?), but they still seem huge from where we are. I feel like I could reach out and touch them.

District 2 seems decently built up, but not in the same depressing towering factories style as 6 or 8 and not clinically like 3. It's orderly and exhibits a higher degree of design sense, though I'm not equipped to say quite in what way. It's just decently pleasing to look at. It is not visually oppressive to be in 2. I don't know if their unique involvement in the rebellion has anything to do with that. There don't seem to be as many visible war scars in the general vicinity, though there are some definite bomb pockmarks on some of the mountains.

The welcoming committee that greets me at the train station is organized as neatly at the buildings I've seen. I'm met by a metallic sound, like the ringing of some strange bell. Gerik Rinsai watches my expression as I realize it was him, smacking a metal cane against his metal leg. I think he's purposely dressed so that part of his replacement calf is exposed just because he wants people to see it. He is a tall man. Hector is big too, and bulkier.

The theme of "organization" carries on into the introductions. I am addressed, names are exchanged, we shake hands: Mayor Gabbar, Hector Auric, Gerik Rinsai, Vice-Mayor Itzel, Head Peacekeeper Cameron, Second-In-Command Peacekeeper Marriz. Hector boasts the most intimidating grip out of all of them. If he wanted, I imagine he could crush my hand.

The only remark that must be unscheduled comes from Gerik. He has pinched, piercing eyes. "You really are that small. Huh," he says to me.

"I looked taller on TV?" I venture.

He shakes his head. I'm not sure if the shaking actually means "no." "You've got some presence."

"Good things in small packages, Gerik," Hector jibes. They fall silent then, going back on script.

We ride through the streets in a pre-decided order. There are three vehicles. There is none of the strange jostling and last minute adjusting that accompanied our visits to pretty much every other district.

I might not be entirely off base to describe this orderliness as…military. It's funny, because I don't imagine 2 actually requires a very high degree of security, but I can see more Peacekeepers here than any other district. Maybe they're not really fully-fledged Peacekeepers. Since this is where they come from, they might still be in training.

District 2 does not bring out the talkative side in me. Gerik and Hector are roughly equivalent in their stoicism. I am sandwiched in-between them in the car. Gerik stares out the window to the left. Hector keeps a casual eye on me, though he's careful not to stare. While most of the other victors are legally adults, Gerik and Hector are the ones who feel the most adult to me. For all the age difference between Kayta Hiro and I, I felt like we were basically the same. I suppose I can't honestly claim to know any of them well enough to judge, but Luna's mature front masks a childish petulance and whether Jack is more playing when he's acting as a thoughtful adult or a goofy kid is anyone's guess. Maybe with victory comes arrested emotional growth. …then again, it's probably just as random and related to each victor's individual personality as everything else.

I am taken to a sculpture garden to give my speech to a select group of District 2 citizens. Half were specifically selected to be present at the event- this number includes the families of the two tributes and other related important parties ("That's my mom," Hector points a woman with long, gray braids out to me)- and the other half were chosen by lottery. Everyone else gets to watch me broadcast live ("There are big screens and stadium seating over at the parade field. Some groups of us go there to watch the Games footage usually," Hector notes. He is more of an explainer than Gerik).

There isn't much need to make any specific personal statements to the families of Padma and Wiley. We didn't interact in the arena. I make a candid remark, expressing my relief regarding this matter, which garners some laughs. I believe the top of my head just barely cleared Wiley's shoulder. I don't want to linger overmuch on the deaths, but there's no doubt in my mind that I owe much of my survival to the stronger players picking one another off while I wandered around the edges of the arena, alone and with Sparrow.

"Better luck next year, huh?" Gerik asks me when I've finished mentioning them.

"Uh," I'm not sure that's what I meant, but it's not not what I meant either, "Yes."

Hector smiles a little, the corners of his mouth twitching and crinkling (I think he's trying not to laugh- at me or Gerik, I can't tell). Mayor Gabbar pins a little gray and silver medal onto and claps me on the shoulder so hard that I stumble and Hector has to grab my arm to keep me from falling off the small, round stage. His grip there is as jolting and tough as his handshake. "Careful with that," he scolds the mayor.

"I'm okay," I assure Hector.

"He doesn't believe in finesse," the victor rolls his eyes.

All (or most) of District 2 listens and chuckles at this remark, snickers mixing with applause as we finish this leg of the show and are whisked off for a whirlwind rush around the salient points they've chosen to expose me to in their district. It's a district that's full of activity. I doubt many people are sitting idle across 2 who have the capability to do differently. I see Peacekeeper trainees going for a very rapid and disciplined run. There are several building projects in evidence. Hector seems to know what all of them are going to be. "Gymnasium," he tells me, "Supply distribution center, foundry, primary school…"

"I only mean this in the most positive way possible," I clarify, "But you seem like you're doing pretty well."

"The Tour's pretty guided propaganda-ish, you know?" Gerik speaks up. The mayor gives him a look, which is pretty much confirmation of this as some level of truth. "But, you know, two victors and all that."

"And they haven't rested on their laurels," Mayor Gabbar takes over for them, "They've done a great deal toward giving back to the community."

"She gets it, Dave," Gerik says, "You saw her volunteer for that little girl the same as we did. Two hardly has a lock on community spirit."

"…not everybody's got it so strong though," Hector adds in a very subdued, soft tone.

The victors from 2, I think, have things on their minds that are far more complex and meaningful than I do. But we're on the same page. I'm pretty sure of this. I think they approve of what I did for Faline.

I get to cut the ribbon on a new swimming pool at some sort of special school. The students attending the ceremony there are attentive and polite. None of them address me until Gerik speaks to them. "Who's looking forward to learning how to swim? I don't know how to swim yet myself."

There are lots of enthusiastic yeses returned to us. A small girl reaches out and pulls on my gray tunic. "Is swimming fun?"

"Yes, very much," I nod vigorously.

"No sharks in swimming pools," Hector says with an impressively tough pokerface. I smile. I'm not immune to these jibes. Apple and Aulie are squeezed over on the other side of the pool between some school officials. They look bored. They haven't really gotten the chance to talk to Hector or Gerik, who might at least provide some interest as victors. The District 2 ethos doesn't appear all that compatible with the glitz and gossip that they favor. …I can't say I am quite meant for it either, though Hector obviously has a sense of humor.

"My mom is helping to make our dinner," Hector tells me on the way out, "Some things never change."

The most interesting feature, food-wise, of the dinner is a layered pasta dish. There are noodles, cheese, tomato sauce, spinach, and meat all arranged into one hot and interesting dish. Mrs. Auric, who tells me I can just call her "Romana," explains that it's called lasagna. She turns out to be the most talkative person I've been allowed to interact with in 2. "Mom, Mom," becomes Hector's constant, groaned refrain. Sure, he struck me as a grown man before, but no matter their age, everyone is a child before their mother.

Romana Auric says whatever she wants without regard for Hector's wishes or any of the other people around us. Although some of the group seems annoyed by it, at least no one looks uncomfortable like they're worried for her. Maybe there's some safety in 2 as far as that kind of thing is concerned. She tells me that her husband was a Capitol loyalist and the same went for her oldest son. Her second son and her daughter were rebels. Everyone of them ended up dead. It certainly serves as a good indication of how important Hector must be to her.

"Do you want to have children someday?" she asks me.

"Uh-uh," I shake my head vigorously. It's a frightening proposition as a person in Panem, an extra concerning one as a victor, and an uncomfortable one as just me (or at least it is jumping the gun- I have never even kissed anyone; how can I think about children?).

"I hope Hector will. I want to have grandchildren."

"Your mom is so subtle," Gerik says, wiping sauce off his plate with a scrap of bread. "…I don't know about kids, but it would be great to meet someone. I get tired of being alone when I'm not with you all day."

It's hard to tell if anything about the wanting grandchildren thing bothers Hector specifically. He responds with what seems to be his stock 'cut that out, Mom' attitude. Gerik's personal remarks are what's more interesting to him. "Tabloids are gonna have a field day, Ger," he points at Tosca, who turns away from her obvious listening to us (no surprises there, it's basically her job) to tap away furiously on her tiny computing device.

"You know you're here for Mags, right?" Hector leans over to remind her.

"Let the lady do her job," Romana pats her son's arm and pours me more lemonade.

"I like tall girls with dark hair," Gerik offers Tosca a tidbit. "So," he leans on the table, making my glass shake with the shifting surface beneath it, "Are you going to send that off to Victor Affairs and all the publicity stuff and set me up on some blind dates? I've got to tell you, I would not recommend myself as a candidate for an arranged marriage."

"Oh, goodness, no," Tosca says in a light and haughty voice. It doesn't strike me as particularly genuine, but I'm not sure I've encountered enough sincerity from Tosca Snow to recognize it when I heart it anyway.

"Just going to bait more Capitol women then," he guesses, "Telling them what I like and all. 'Wouldn't you like to undertake the task of taming this wild savage?'"

"And quote," Hector appends to the end of Gerik's statement. He said it, they'll use it, whoever needed context anyway? That's what I'm taking away from all of this. It paints all the coverage of the victors in an interesting light. …Although I am not exactly sure what light that is. I'm not smart enough to juggle all the strange things that now go on around me. I can't understand all the other districts, the Capitol, the thoughts of so many people. I really only have the most tiny and tenuous understanding of myself even.

We eat another layered concoction for dessert, some sort of parfait with strawberries from a can laid on top of granola with something like ice cream, but not quite, over and under that, and whipped cream and sprinkles on top.

"I like doing things with girl victors," Hector comments to Gerik, "Let's get a girl next time."

It's not as if either of them has much control, if any, over it. This is just yet another exercise in black humor, but it does tell me that Hector likes me. There isn't anything special drawing me and the men from Two together, but we can get along (after Beto, I am practically glad from the mere fact of their being able to understand me when I speak). For all that many other people have been interested in and kind to me after surviving the Games, as far understanding of the topsy-turvy world victory transports you to, no one can compete with my fellow victors.

I hope that they can tell I appreciate making their various acquaintances (Pal could, Kayta could, Shy could, it's harder to speak to even my best guesses toward the thoughts of some of the others). I make sure and tell Hector that I liked meeting his mother before I leave. As a group, the victors seem even more bereft of family than the average citizen. Hector is lucky to have her. I tell Gerik I hope he finds the right someone. They know it isn't far from here to One (although my visit will be spaced a certain amount of hours into the day as they generally seem to be, instead of One having to feed me my breakfast too), and both instruct me to "Give Jack a hard time," which I cannot quite promise myself to.

"He's too quick for me," I say, not wanting to get their expectations too high, "He knows what to say to play the game."

"Just do the best that you can," Gerik allows.

"I'll be happy to do the best I can, " I agree.

"He might let her get one or two over on him," Hector suggests, then turns to look back at me, "I guess you know he kind of likes you? But, hey, if he ever gives you a hard time, just call me up and I'll think of some way to put him in his place. He can be a first class jerk sometimes, let me be the first to warn you."

"He always wanted a kid sister," Gerik shakes my hand as Hector hassles Aulie to take down his phone number for me.

I can see the two of them on the platform waving at me before we gain enough speed that they disappear, just a blur in the dark.

They're very grounded. Not, like Emmy, afloat and adrift from a world that sent her flying against her will possibly never to land again, and not, like Jack, aloft and fluttering, loosed from mundane things by some sort of choice of his own- some belief that it's best to live lightly, like the people who have adopted him as one of their own?

But so far they've all survived, all in their own ways- Emmy and Gerik and Hector and Jack and the rest (though I've worried more for some of them than others). And then there's me. On some level, the answer to the question I'm about to ask is, clearly, whatever it takes. I didn't fight Haakon in the arena to give up now. That was my last chance to turn back. I could've let him kill me.

…But everyone has limits. Everyone hits up against something they're not willing to do someday if life keeps on pushing them.

The only one left to see in his own environment is Jack (though it might be possible to argue that by seeing him both onstage and backstage, I've already gone a fair distance toward seeing him in his natural habitat). I have compared and compared and compared. Now how will I live?

I take a shower, able to hear the vague sounds of the television through the wall. I think my team is finally over their disappointment that they can't watch much of the official Victory Tour programming during its initial airing since we're busy at the next stop doing things to make up each new episode of the "Mags takes in the local color and says awkward things" show.

I dream that Haakon Erikson and I are together in a rowboat. There is no land in sight. There are no oars. The boat springs a leak and water that looks like blood (maybe it is blood?) begins to flood in. We don't try to stop it. He asks about my dad. I ask about his sister.

I wake up before this dream has crept to any meaningful conclusion, leaving behind the image of the two of us facing one another, the blood-water nearly up to our knees.

I take another shower. It's five in the morning. My team is still sleeping. I put on a green shirt and a pair of pants out of my own clothing. I go and sit on the couch in the sitting room- err, car. One of the Avoxes, one of the men, peeks in at me. He makes a gesture that I interpret as "Do you need anything?" I shake my head. "I'm fine, thanks."

He points out the window. My curiosity is piqued. I come over to look and see that the sun is slowly creeping over what is presumably District 1, considering how gentle and slow our progress continues forward. In the midst of miles of rolling hills and shrubby fields dotted with rock formations is a tall city. "White city," I whisper.

The Avox points at himself.

"Is that where you're from?"

He nods.

"It's beautiful," I tell him.

He nods again.

We watch a while then go our separate ways.


	5. Part I, Chapter V

As opposed to all of the certain everyday-clothes- just to Capitol tastes- style of the outfits I've worn throughout the Victory Tour so far, the dress that's been picked out (made? adjusted?) for me to wear to District 1 is definitely a party dress. It's white and gold and yellow, which suits my vague notions of District 1 just fine. It also matches the white city we've come to rest in as it appeared while I watched it the warm dawn roll over its sleek surfaces. Is this setting the tone, I wonder, for the few steps of the Victory Tour yet to come?

There are dangling ornaments for my hair too- made of ribbon and bells and old coins shined up to a brilliant gold sheen. They dangle down around my shoulders and remind me of the nets and pearls I wore in my hair for the initial on air celebration of my victory.

Even the shoes, though fortunately they're flats, are part gold and just as flamboyant as the rest of the outfit. Irish dabs a bit more eye makeup on me than usual and it also glitters. "District One expects someone pretty, I guess," I joke about it.

"Eh," Spring shrugs, "They know what to expect."

Someone plain it is then!

I don't mention it to Apple because I don't want to irritate her, but while we wait for our cue (not our arrival, since our train has actually been not only within the boundaries of District 1, but sitting in the white city, whatever its name might be, for a while now), I consult with my more understanding Capitol mentor-minder-friend. "So now I get to see Jack?" I stand on tiptoe to whisper to Aulie (even when I am on tiptoe, he must lean back down toward me to keep our speaking private).

"Presumably! I can't think of any reason at all why they would want to deprive us of a little time with one of our favorite victors." He winks and I notice that his eyelids are just as gold as mine. "Yours, mine, and the Capitol's," he clarifies his "ours."

"You and Apple were really bored in Two, weren't you?"

"Oh, no," he begins and I think he's about to lie, "We weren't just bored on some normal level, we were bored practically to tears!" …I should've known he just wanted to tease or make a big deal out of it. "The food was very nice, but I found the fashion and entertainment somewhat lacking. …And we barely got to speak to the victors. A bunch of stiffs and Peacekeepers aren't really the kind of company Apple and I much appreciate." He shrugs. "It probably goes both ways, to tell the truth."

"You'll be able to make up for it by having an extra good time here though, don't you think?" I flip one of the bell-weighted ribbons back over my shoulder then point at his suit of the day with its many magenta sequins. "We look like we're dressed to have fun here."

"Fun is definitely my aim," Aulie grins and gives me the full, um, experience, of his perfectly cleaned Capitol teeth and their various sparkling adornments. "And I do suppose that the fun quotient is on a definite upswing now- One, the Capitol, and then back to Four where the party will inevitably be huge."

"Are you sure it's possible for us to put on a bigger party in Four than they will in the Capitol? An ordinary day in the Capitol can put some of the small celebrations we have back home to shame, size- and glitz-wise."

"Well, you know, the party is going to be in Four, but the Capitol is throwing it for you, Mags, so I imagine the budget is skyscraper high."

"Hmm." I want to say that it "makes sense," but what is there to make sense of in this situation? It is what it is. I guess that it all fits together nicely now that I've been better informed about the way it works.

"Now, now," Apple and Tosca walk through the hall, jarring me back to the better posture somewhat Capitol occasionally tells me to show as Apple claps her hands. "It's time for us to get going!"

"Mags fiiiirst," Apple gives a little cheer and pushes me into forward motion with a tiny touch of her manicured hands. Today, her hands are kind of cold.

The door opens for me automatically and I am received by a delegation whose cheers and clapping were presaged by Apple's own. I smile and look around. There are men and women; there are cameras.

There is no sign of Jack Umber- not that he would be the first fellow victor to fail to meet me the moment my feet alit on his home district's soil. …though the ones who didn't were either ambivalent or unfriendly to me and I think I can be reasonably sure that Jack is interested in me without seeming naive or self-absorbed.

A blond woman with a long ponytail swishing behind her breaks from the anonymity of the group to meet me. "Ms. Gaudet, I'm Sophie Varen, incredibly pleased to meet you!"

The way she shakes my hand, she certainly seems like it. There are pearls hanging in her hair and they bob about with her excitement. "Please," she continues, "Consider me your tour guide and facilitator throughout your visit to District One. I hope you will find it most enjoyable."

"Uh, yeah," I stammer, "Thank you." She's a little like Apple or Aulie with her overwhelming enthusiasm, but I am also tempted to say that she bears some resemblance to Jack. She is putting on a show, after all. Off to the side, by one of the cameramen, I can see Tosca looking pleased. "It's nice to meet you too, Ms. Varen."

"Just 'Sophie' is fine."

"And likewise, just 'Mags.'"

She's so pretty. I realize that she hasn't let go of my hand all this time. Her hand is warm. Her eyes are green. She does remind me of Jack. It's something about District 1. A little something visual- genetic- and a little something related to presentation. She steps around me and turns me this and that, introducing me to everyone assembled who they've determined is worth my specifically knowing, but I know that I won't be able to keep track of them all, so I focus my remembering efforts on the mayor, Cyn Greenstreet, who I figure is the most important among them.

Sophie is warm and friendly with the rest of my entourage as well, giving the assembled people a small introduction to each of them, "Because their unique identities may not always be entirely apparent from the way they've been presented on TV," she beams.

It occurs to me that Shy would probably love her.

"Apple Smitt, official District Four escort, with a taste for the color green that goes past fashionable and into the iconic-"

Apple is obviously (and unsurprisingly) flattered. She waves the little forest green and gold fan she (or someone else) has picked to go with her current outfit.

"-The impressively muscled Aulus Strong, several time coach to District Four in absence of a victor-"

Aulie is a bit better behaved in regard to the attention.

"-Erinne Cousla, up and coming fashion designer and current head designer for Mags and District Four's tributes, and, rounding out the official District Four style team are Spring Sam and Irish Wilkes, assistants to Ms. Cousla."

The style team accepts the accolades gracefully, as expected. They generally manage to be calm purveyors of (relatively, by my standards) good taste.

When everyone has been suitably introduced, clapped for, smiled at, and otherwise fawned over, I learn that next part of the plan is a tour of District 1's highest end artisan district, where any number of pretty things are made to suit the tastes of the Capital. I catch Erinne vaguely noting, "I always wanted to see this," to Spring.

"If you have any questions at all, please feel free to direct them to me," Sophie tells me.

The questions I have are small and flippant and not really intended for public consumption, so I nod my understanding and withhold them, at least for now. I am getting better and better at forgetting how many cameras can be around me, but to a certain degree, I know it's better not to forget. I don't know the punishment for a victor who says something untoward- though since the Victory Tour isn't airing live, the Capitol reserves the safety of editing. Whether many or few people hear it, even with the consequences an unknown, I feel that vaguely defined pressure to "be good."

Sophie and I ride in the back seat of a fancy white car with the top down, which makes for a decent veil of noise. "Do you mind my asking," I intrude on her silence, "Where Jack is?"

"No," she says, "I thought you would want to know that."

"I guess I thought he'd be at the station when I arrived…" I admit.

"The district has a rough relationship with Jack, you know?" Sophie offers in place of a straightforward explanation, "One hated him as much as anyone else when he won. He killed five people, including Rosie Callahan, his female counterpart, our last "Junior Miss District One." Jack was an orphan; Rosie had a big family. And then the Capitol went and said, after they'd done all this to punish us as a whole, that for killing his fellow district citizens, Jack deserved to be rewarded, not, well, the best I can imagine would've been being allowed to quietly fade from the spotlight. So he became an honorary one of them.

"…Now, you also know that our district has long been pushed into focusing our industries on pleasing the nearby Capitol. In a way, Jack is doing that very same thing, but people hate to be reminded of such unpleasant truths about themselves. They want to say that Jack chooses it and they don't, when, really, we all have roughly the same choice- submit or die…"

Sophie trails off and unenthusiastically points out beyond the developed bounds of the city that come into view as we go up a hill. "Vineyards. We grow grapes to make wine. We grow garlic too. Oranges. Some strawberries. No staples. It's whatever we can grow that the Capitol likes, to make up for or supplement the things out of the more workmanly farming districts. …That's what we did before and what we're doing again. Whatever the Capitol likes."

"You never hated Jack though, did you, Sophie," I guess. She seems wistful. For all her talk of the past, including the pre-Games past of the earlier half of my childhood, it's hard to believe Sophie could be old enough to remember it much better than I do. How old is she? She can't possibly be as old as Jack, can she?

"No, you're right. I didn't." Her voice grows so soft I almost strain to hear it. "I like him."

It's romantic (even if she doesn't mean her feelings romantically). It's kind of beautiful.

"You're turning pink!" Sophie laughs, surprised.

I am? I am! "I can't help it!" I protest.

"Don't worry," she keeps on sputtering with mirth, "Jack will make an appearance eventually. He just had something else on his schedule for the morning- it's all been worked out in advance."

We're slowing down a bit. "Almost there," she says. "…You know, Jack has talked to me about you. He follows all of your television appearances and publicity."

"Do you work with Jack?"

"Yeah, all the time."

"Ladies," the driver prompts us once we've come to careful stop. Sophie thanks her and holds the door for me. The wind has mussed her hair somewhat, but mine has largely held. My style people know how to do their job well.

"Jack's such a popular topic of conversation," Tosca says as she approaches us.

"Can you lip read?" I inquire. I think I'd come off paranoid asking if she could hear (via a bug or other less sneaky recording device), so it's better not to voice that thought.

"Enough," she answers, "And it seemed worth a guess."

Aulie's favorite cameraman gets us- Sophie and me- in frame. Tosca backs away rather than holding up the proceedings. Sophie gives me a well-rehearsed spiel about this three-block area being the jewel of District 1's arts district and we set out on our walk to investigate a representative sample of the craftspeople and shops.

There's a seamstress who painstakingly copies the current Capitol trends for those with lower incomes (by Capitol standards) who strive for upward movement in the fashion world. Her work on display includes a replica of my blue and gold crowning dress resting on a mannequin. The seamstress acts pleased to meet Erinne, the designer, though to a large degree, I think it's an act. The seamstress is thin and the circles under eyes are impressively dark and heavy even through her makeup.

There's a jewelry shop focused on diamonds, a place full of golden watches, designer aquarium fish, jewelry made like (of?) stained glass, strangely fluffy scarves knitted out of some material that's so soft I'm mesmerized and can't stop touching them (I have probably provided my moment to be laughed at for the Tour show right there), seashell-shaped chocolates, ice sculptures…things I've never seen and can't name. Some of the things are designed by people in the Capitol and made here, but there's also a small segment of 1's population that gets to exercise some degree of their own creativity.

I don't know if the area has been specifically cleared out for my visit, but I'm struck by how quiet it is. Maybe it is normally like this. Maybe there are rarely any shoppers unless visitors or wholesalers come out from the Capitol and it's calm with just the various locals working away above and below and behind the storefronts. They only film samples of individual tasks that involve precision and artfulness, but I can hear in places the sounds of mass production, and catch a glimpse or two of the more undifferentiated workers toiling away in other parts of the shops.

Aulie and Apple purchase a few things at what they tell me are very large discounts from what the items would cost them in the Capitol. I feel like I can practically see the stars shining in their eyes. If they had to live in one of the districts, this is the place they would pick. Even if, in those circumstances, they couldn't afford any of these things, I think they would be happiest if they remained around them at least, able to look.

Rather than "spoiling my appetite" for whatever lavish dinner District 1 has prepared for me, Sophie takes us to a sweets shop so fluffily decorated in white and pinks that I'd almost believe that the building was made out of frosting. "It's going to be really rich," Sophie cautions me, "So you should only pick one thing."

I take the decision rather seriously and lean down, peering into the display counter at all the fancy confections, somewhat awed by the variety that I see. One thing. How do I pick one thing when I've never eaten any of these things? I mean, I'm sure they're all good, but-

Apple and Erinne and everyone else pick sweets out around me.

The younger-looking of the two women behind the counter approaches me. "Lacy," reads the frosting-like lettering on her nametag. "You're just like on TV!" she giggles, "Do you, um, need some help? Like a recommendation?"

I laugh nervously, proving how much I probably do need it. "Pick me something?"

Lacy's smile seems to stretch from ear to ear. "You got it."

A stranger is happy to do some small thing for me. This is part of what it is, I suppose, to be a celebrity. Lacy chooses something soft and almond-studded and filled with pink whipped cream. I take it outside to eat at one of the small umbrella-shaded tables and it tastes lovely. I can see why Sophie told me only to get one.

"Somebody's happy," Sophie says to me, between dainty bites of her chocolate eclair (do all these people have special training to be able to eat so neatly? I spend a lot of time feeling awfully sloppy in their presence). "Jack gets the same way when he eats."

"Will we have dinner with him?"

"No, I don't think so. It wasn't in the plans. But, you never know, he could finish up early and come join us. I'm sure he will if he has the time."

I didn't get the impression that it was very difficult for most of the other victors to find the time in their schedules to interact with me (and some of them genuinely wanted to do so). Jack is a busier person than I realized.

We go for another driving ramble and this time a cameraman squeezes into the car with us to record Sophie's pressed, polished, and shined comments on various local landmarks and industry while I respond with polite interest to each of the things we see.

Between takes, the cameraman (I have never really learned their names- we were never separately introduced) pokes fun at my canned replies to Sophie's facts. Sophie is thoroughly amused. "But I'm the one who's really giving canned lines!" she protests.

"Your acting is better than my just being!" I act mock-affronted at this charge.

But my good mood fades as I realize where our ride is about to end. Time to speak of the dead once again. To take one last bit of responsibility for the more unfortunate things I've done. It's time to get the hardest part of this over with (for that last time, I assure myself, because there may be that empty ache in 4 where Beanpole was, but it's not some new thing to be confronted- I've been dealing with it all this time).

Clark and Korona's family members stand out by the way they've been pinned with a black, folded ribbon each on their chests. A sign of mourning, maybe. "We respectfully welcome Victor Mags," Mayor Greenstreet goes on, "And salute her for her performance." I seem to be packaged slightly differently for each district. It's all in the wording. No one has asked me to behave differently for the benefit of any particular group. I am my usual shaky self, stumbling through my thank your and remembrances and veiled "I'm sorry"s. 1 accepts all of this with gloomy reserve. One of Korona's sisters starts to scream something at me. I am startled, but the rest of her family quickly quiet her.

There's nothing surprising about anger in this situation. They've had several months to cool off, but the pain of losing a family member doesn't fade fast. I've had plenty of time to observe the reactions of Mrs. Mirande, for instance, and she's hurting even though she doesn't blame me for Beanpole's fate. Here, bad feelings are being stirred up again on purpose. Smile for the killer. Welcome her to your home.

Dinner follows, but I'm not very hungry. Sophie tries very hard to be entertaining. I learn that she is twenty-two and works as a tour guide for Capitol visitors. She appears on television occasionally in a related capacity, which is how she knows Jack. Apple cues up a short video of Sophie and Jack visiting a vineyard on her comp device via Capitol Net. They look very comfortable together.

There is wine on the table from that very same vineyard. Aulie gets tipsy.

Jack doesn't show.

But that only means that we'll go on from here to meet up with him elsewhere, according to Sophie. Something about having a secondary stop that will- undoubtedly, I feel it- be big and flashy makes me nervous.

I go quietly to this next destination, somewhere large and enclosed. A theater? A television studio? I know there are satellite branches of the Capitol's various film and television companies located here. Sophie leads me through a black back door and down a nondescript hall. "We'll be watching from the sidelines," Apple assures me as the hall branches in several directions and the vague blurs of noise and light at the edges grow stronger.

"Wh-what am I being expected to do?" I freeze up and interrogate Sophie.

"Nothing terribly complex," she assures me, "Just play along with Jack- he's got the whole thing under control. He's going to show you off a little bit."

I start to stammer out something related to my suddenly spiking nerves, but I'm not given much of a chance to say it. A man with a headset waves me on and when I hesitate, I'm urged up onto the shiny, mother of pearl-ish stage to stand beside Jack, who looks all flash in a golden yellow three piece suit, behind a gold ornamented microphone on a stand. "Oh, here we are! We have our newest victor with us today- Mags Gaudet!" he works the crowd into giving me a hearty round of applause. "…Hey, look, we kind of match," he stretches out an arm to compare the color of his suit to my dress and I'm able to see that even the lighter white-gold lining of the suit jacket is similar to my costume. Who coordinated this? My style team? Someone in Victor Affairs? I don't know who it is who directly manages and dresses Jack.

"Those colors," I say and the words come out quiet, then I am suddenly picked up better by the microphone as Jack leans it toward me, making the second half of the sentence boom, "Look nice on you."

This provokes a round of chuckles from the audience and someone shouts out, "They'd look nice off of you too!" which- is it wrong to hope that's directed at Jack?

"Tonight's looking booked for me, but maybe some other night you'll get to find out," he takes the jibe and runs with it, tossing the crowd a flirtatious crumb that provokes lots of laughing here, but will probably be greeted with just as screams and swoons in the Capitol. I think of what Sophie Varen told me about Jack and District 1. This audience was probably specially chosen for this event. Maybe there was a bit more flexibility because I doubt many people in 1 have anything specifically against me (there's my involvement with Korona and there could also be some plain dislike of victors), but still, for all that the Victory Tour is meant to be about me, this is looking like another installment of the Jack Umber show.

"Now, back to the task at hand," he tries to take hold of things, but he's no Jeff Zimmer and the audience doesn't settle immediately at his command. "Now," he repeats himself, "About Mags." He sticks his hand under his jacket and from his back pocket pulls a gold-colored box with a little blue ribbon around it. "I bought her a present."

I jolt a bit. He holds it up for everyone (the cameras) to see. "Is that okay?" he asks for the approval of the audience.

I dig my hands into the folds of my dress. I can feel my face turning red and I can't think of anything to do to fight it. I can only hope that if I take a deep breath and throw myself into the act that it will pass before too many people pick up on it and it gets replayed a hundred times on talk programs all over the Capitol.

The cheers and whistles that Jack receives can only be taken as a general approval of his actions. I manage to convince myself to let go of my dress (if it were just a shirt, I am sure I would be worrying the hem of it between my fingers- I've been noticing that I do that, but is it enough to be considered a bad habit?).

Jack turns a bit, the box in one hand and the microphone stand in the other. He looks down at me. There's so much gold and glitter in today's themed clothes and decorations that his deep green eyes almost seem to have flecks of gold in them too. "Is it okay?" he repeats his question to me, in a softer, less emcee-like tone.

As much as I want to be in control of my feelings and my performance, I haven't managed to get fully into the swing of this quite yet. I nod.

"So, what do you think, District One?" he looks back out at the people in search of their okay.

In the Capitol, across Panem, and back at home, this is what Jack does, isn't it? He bends and contorts himself, smiling and joking and inquiring, to become or give whatever people want. There were no interviews before his Games. There were no public signs that there was anything chameleon-like about him.

I wonder what Jack would do or say if the people were to tell him this wasn't what they wanted. That they wanted to hate me. That they didn't want to watch any friendly overtures toward me. …but someone in the Capitol must feel the same, or similarly, to Jack. He is dancing to their tune or they are accompanying the cheery jig he begins a cappella.

"Can we be friends?" Jack asks the people, though presumably he is also asking me, "District One and District Four- what do you think?" he proposes, "Friendly rivals?"

The reception this suggestion garners is nothing to scoff at. I see some "Go District 1" banners waving toward the back of the room, the same kind of Games boosting stuff that Jack flaunts on television when he's stuck between Mr. Bronze and Mr. Zimmer during all the pre-Games coverage. There is- or at least I'm meant to see- some kind unity in District 1, but it doesn't feel the same to me as the cool solidarity that District 2 seemed to present. I guess that doesn't mean it's not real, but I think I could be forgiven for a bit of skepticism. 2 might've come off a bit dull, but what I saw felt real. Nearly every bit of 1 that I've been exposed to has been perfect and polished to such a degree that it's not hard to question how real it is.

If the Victory Tour is as much propaganda as Gerik said it was, every other district is propaganda I can believe. But not 1. So what does that mean, regarding 1?

Jack lets go of his grip on the microphone stand to untie the ribbon on the box and theatrically open up his gift for me. Inside the box are two, um, I think there's a special name for them, but I forget. Hairsticks? They're hairsticks. They look like they're made of gold (or gold paint) over wood. They're thin at the bottoms and thick up to small balled tops. They're glittery. I have ceased to be all that moved by glitteriness, the way that it has been overdone as the theme of this Tour stop (or of District 1's public image in general).

"May I?" Jack removes them from the box, which he tucks back into one of his pockets (I can see it jutting out of the top against his jacket now that I know it's there).

"Uh," I stammer stupidly as he reaches toward my hair. No "yes," but no "no" either.

He moves very carefully, touching my head as little as possible as he slips one stick through the bun on the left side of my head and then the other through the bun on the right. Some of the dangling decorations are jarred a bit and jingle slightly. "There," he declares when he's finished. He steps back from me and reaches back for the microphone. There are better, smaller ways of amplifying sound, but I suppose he likes the dramatic display that this microphone makes. It stands at about eye level for me, probably making me seem particularly short.

Jack looks me over and the cameras are probably doing the same.

"How do I look?" I ask him.

The microphone picks up his sharp little intake of breath. "Wonderful," he settles upon. It sounds good, but it's not too weighted. Better than "great," but not "lovely" or "beautiful."

Do I look wonderful? It doesn't matter. It makes me smile.

"You got something to say?" he offers, moving the microphone between us and giving me the floor as he stands primly by my side.

I laugh, and my voice echoes around the room. "Ha ha, thank you, Jack."

I catch a small snapping sound, but it might be someone in the audience dropping something or just a bit of audio feedback. "Isn't he nice?" I prompt the people.

"Yes!" calls Sophie, which is funny, since her voice comes not from the people sitting in front, but from backstage. People are beginning to laugh, but the timing seems a bit off for it to have been prompted by my comments.

Then there's a pop. It sounds very close to my head.

I only slightly turn my head to look at Jack, who wears an incredibly tight-lipped smile that can only be a dam against a torrent of laughter.

There is a lit match in his hand.

I turn to face him full on. A few colored sparks flutter down in past my cheeks. The popping noise continues sporadically. My mouth falls open, nervous and incredulous, but I can't think of anything reasonable to say as Jack reaches up and touches the match to, presumably, my other hairstick, before blowing it out.

Bright, gem-hued sparks of light pop off and drift around me. I try to look up at them, but it's hard to see something that's situated toward the top of your own head. "Umm?" I query him, worried.

"Aww," he puts an arm around my shoulders and pulls me to rest against his side- apparently he's not bothered by or worried over the sparks that are still jumping off my hair sticks, even though they must start quite close to his face based on our comparative heights, "I wouldn't put you in danger," he insists.

The way the laughing around us continues, this is not exactly the best way to sell me on believing him, but I try and believe him, leaning stiffly into his "good buddies" type of one-armed embrace.

The popping sound dies down, although streaks of color still float down around me. I catch sight of Aulie standing on the far edge of the stage wiping tears of laughter off his face. His makeup is smearing from the tears and his hands.

Jack babbles on for the entertainment of the crowd, thanking the makers of the trick sparkler hairsticks for the use of their product, telling everyone when they'll be able to see the rest of the airing of the Victory Tour (and when it will re-air, which I'm sure my team takes note of), and commenting on some of his favorite parts of it so far, which were mainly times I was shown doing something awkward or tacky. "Now," he says at last, drawing his presentation to a close, "I have one last proposition to make before I retire for the night and leave you lovely people to carry on your celebrations without me."

He slides his arm around until it's just his right hand resting on my left shoulder as he looks down at me, "Mags." He sounds very serious, but I can't help but assume now that Jack being serious is nothing but the setup for yet another joke. "Will you come out sometime and host my show with me?"

…and how is it that he makes his eyes sparkle like that?

What a funny, funny man.

"More than once or twice," he hopes, "Maybe a lot? Maybe all the time?"

Now, I could play this distant and uninterested and, who knows, maybe that's what Jack wants from me, but we didn't talk about this at all beforehand and there's no way for me to tell, so I've just got to proceed as I see fit. So, I tell him, "I don't know about _all_ the time, but…yes. I'll be on your show. More than once or twice. I would love to."

We are enveloped in applause. Maybe I didn't play it perfect, but it was all right.

We head back stage and Jack puts his arm around my shoulders. "Oh, that was great! You were great!" he squeezes my shoulders.

"You were too, Jack," Sophie approaches us. She looks so happy.

I tilt my head up to try and gauge Jack's reaction to her. Am I disappointed that it isn't incandescent? He is certainly happy, but it's of the same caliber as he's shown to me. "Thank you, Sophie."

It's funny. What's all this about a romantic dream…?

"You look tired, Mags," he peers down at me. There's so much kindness in this simple squint. "The parties the Capitol likes to throw can really take it out of you, so I should probably see you safely delivered back into the hands of your people so that you can rest up for tomorrow night."

"I can stay up," I answer, "The party won't be until late- I'll have lots of time to rest." Jack's face hasn't registered any change in his stance. "…I want to talk to you," I offer my candid feelings.

He considers it.

"Mags!" Apple calls to me, scampering over to my side, "You really are all right, aren't you? You looked so scared when you realized there were sparks flying around your hair."

"I'm okay, Apple."

"I'll be at the party in the Capitol," Jack tells me, "Don't worry, you're going to see me again. You'll probably see me so much you'll get sick of me." He laughs. It's strange to watch him fluctuate so quickly between self-promoting and self-deprecating.

It's just…in the Capitol is there ever a chance to talk without scrutiny? For people like Jack and me, is it possible to exist in public without an audience? "I- I," I stutter. Well, what is there after all for me to say?

He takes his arm off my shoulders and touches my face. I pull back, bumping against Apple, who puts her arm around me instead, sort of protectively. "Tomorrow then," Jack reiterates, "In the Capitol. I'll be looking forward to it."

"Let's round up Aulus and everyone and get you back to your room on the train," Sophie suggests. I get the feeling that Sophie's entire public life revolves around making things easier for other people. While it's admirable, it must be exhausting. I hope that after a day like today she gets some time off for some good rest of her own.

"Good night," Jack tells Sophie, I think, in particular.

"Don't get mobbed when you leave," Sophie warns him.

"Oh, what do I care?" Jack shrugs.

"…Would people hurt him?" I frown as we separate. Jack moves away from us and eventually I can only see the top of the back of his head as he's enveloped by members of the broadcast crew.

"Probably not." Sophie can't reassure me.

It's dark outside as we make our way back to the cars. District 1's white city twinkles around us. It's not the Capitol, but 3 is its only competitor among the districts for concentration of lights. "Do you think we can keep in touch?"

"I'd be happy to try," Sophie says, "But even if we can't, know that I'll be watching all your events.

"I'll watch for you on TV too," I promise. "…I might even learn something."

"A lot of it's fluff," Sophie smiles and leans her chin on her hand.

The combination of darkness and silence that enfolds us afterward is not unpleasant.

"…I'll take care of Jack the best I can," she tells me.

"I'm sure that'll mean the best that anyone can." I mean this quite sincerely. There's only so much anyone can do, but Sophie has the proximity, if not the means, to manage something.

She doesn't have a phone at home, but she gives me the extension of the branch of the studio she works in, admitting she doesn't have much time to chat there, but if it's urgent, she can make up an excuse. I offer my phone number in return (the remembering of it still trips me up a bit).

And that's how my journey through the remaining foreign-to-me eleven districts wraps up. I am as exhausted as Jack thought, though I can only tell it now that the moment has passed.

There will be time to wash up in the morning. I go to sleep in my party dress.

If I dream, I don't remember it.

I sleep in. I shower. I don't bother braiding my hair or putting it up in buns, but settle for simply tying it back in a ponytail. I wear the dress that Pal made for me. I keep running my fingers along the seams between the different patches of fabric. It's a very comfortable dress. It was so kind of him to make it for me.

By the time I've gotten myself all together, it seems to late for breakfast, so I hold out for lunch. Aulie goes into the city and brings lunch back for everyone, even the four Avoxes, whose reactions to being invited to eat with us look to be a mix of caution and excitement. They sit off to the side even while sharing the dining car with us, but whenever I make eye contact, they smile at me. They do some kind of impressively intricate talking with their hands among themselves. I wonder what kind of things they say about us. I wonder what their schedules are like. Who's in charge of them? What do they do for fun? What is the blond Avox woman from the Games complex doing now?

Aulie and Apple both offer to take me into the Capitol to do something during the afternoon, but I figure that it's better to stay low-key until tonight. Aulie's been out already- along with picking up lunch, apparently he checked on his place, looked through his mail, and chatted with his neighbors who were excited about seeing him on TV. Apple takes her turn to out and do some things of her own. "I'll bring you back some fun," she tells me.

"Oh, you don't have to do that, Apple," I laugh.

"It will be my pleasure," she disagrees.

"…If she brings you something I've seen before in her apartment, I may never stop laughing," Aulie says once she's gone.

"So you know her well enough to have been in her apartment. I wasn't sure."

"Well, it was just during your Games. We watched some of there together. We couldn't help but worry about you."

"Sometimes I think that you're like my aunt and uncle," I admit.

"You are what we have in common…"

When Apple returns, she hands me a pink plastic bag. "Mink's" it says, in curly, magenta lettering. "It's just a few little things."

This turns out to mean two magazines ("Fashion Forward" and "Out and About" which has my photograph on the cover), two candy bars, and some sort of wooden brain teaser puzzle that causes Aulie to mouth something which probably means "out of her apartment" to me but I'm still no good at lip-reading. I do my best to express my gratitude to her for thinking of me, then retreat to my room.

I sit on the bed and look at the magazines. As much as it pains me on some level, I look at the article related to me first. It's about the Victory Tour, featuring pictures through our stop in District 5. That's something to be said for the Capitol- they do things fast. There's a row of little cut out pictures of me in each of my different Tour outfits that makes me think of the paperdolls Aoko and I used to make, cutting clothes out of magazines. The writing is pretty vapid, but I actually enjoy the pictures. I want to keep them- posing with Pal, attempting the Woodcutters' Dance, visiting the hospital with Sunny, being thrown over Aulie's shoulder… Whatever the Capitol finds good about continuing to have a Victory Tour, there's been good in it for me too.

Jack Umber is visiting a famous Capitol bar and photographed with colorful, practical glowing bottles and drinks in "Out and About"'s other main spread. I wonder if tonight we really will talk, or if it will just be another opportunity for him to tease me.

I can't figure out the puzzle before Erinne knocks on my door to collect me for tonight's round of dressing up- inevitably the fanciest, most elaborate one of all.

The outfit is waiting for me on a dress form. "I am sooo sick of sewing those stars," Spring laughs as I gape at the detailed costume before me.

It bears some similarity to my victory dress, which I presume is intentional. It's just like the matter of how my preferred hairstyle is usually preserved for my various appearances. Recognizability is important. …Or it will be as the ranks of victors swell. I can't imagine at this point that it's hard to tell me apart from Emmy, Luna, Sunny, and Shy. The only one I can strain to think I resemble is Emmy- I suppose if she always veers pink and I always slant blue there's unlikely to be much confusion.

"I love the way you gawk," Irish chuckles, shaking her head at me.

The dress is…well, I take the base to be blue. Another gradient of sorts, with a light blue at the top, running down to a dark blue at the bottom. But over that blue are large shapes in other colors. Toward the top is a golden yellow sun shooting forth sharp, rectangular beams that wrap around the dress's chest and waist and over the short sleeves. Curving up from near the bottom of the roughly knee-length dress is a yellow-white crescent moon. Stretched in between and behind them are curlicued clouds in varied shades of gray and white.

The part that Spring must be referring to tiring her out is hanging loosely over the dress. It's a huge, diaphanous piece of blue-tinted fabric run through with silver thread and sewn with white stars edged with silver and gold. There's a certain net-like quality to it. There's a twisted braid of through-lines here and I'm not even sure the woman who designed this is aware of all of them. Shades of the Games and of 4's fishing industry were probably captured intentionally, but that wearing a net makes me something like a bride has probably escaped her. (It's not really a net after all and it wasn't woven back home. They don't expect me to share it with anyone.)

There are black tights. Red flats. But I keep staring at the decorated piece of fabric, wondering how they want me to wear it. "You caught the stars in a net," I say to Erinne.

"Well, a veil," she shrugs, though she looks pleased with my response.

I get dressed up and after my hair is fixed up and a bit more makeup than usual is daubed on my face (red-pink lip gloss, mascara, some very shiny blue eye shadow) the star-spattered veil is draped over my head in an artfully casual way. Erinne secures it with two inconspicuous silver pins.

Apple applauds for me when I come out ready to go. She and Aulie have also dressed up (though they always seem to be dressing up to me).

"We'll catch up with you at the party," Spring winks at me.

"They're nothing like yours, but we picked out special outfits too," Irish elaborates.

Tosca is nowhere in evidence as we depart, but we still have one of the cameraman officially training his lens on us (to say nothing of the various folks who stop to film or snap pictures when they notice our small ensemble passing by). Apple tells me that Tosca is picking up her brother to bring to the party. Her much younger brother, apparently, since it sounds like I'm older than him.

We arrive at the location where the party will be held. It's a huge mansion. I have no idea who it belongs to and don't bother to ask. There's a handsome man in a rather ridiculous fur hat waiting to meet us. He hands me a bouquet of sunflowers. "Nar Lycius," he introduces himself, "From Victor Affairs. I've been appointed official District Four liaison on top of my preexisting post as official liaison to District Five, so I'm sure we'll be seeing each other on and off on a regular basis."

"So Shy has to share you with me now?" I smile.

"She's easy to manage. I think you'll be the same. This setup is a compliment, really. Some of the other districts need separate liaisons already just because they have complicated or troublesome circumstances."

"Kayta Hiro," I suggest to Apple and Aulie. Apple indulges me with a smile. Aulie chuckles.

First up on our agenda here is an impromptu photo shoot on the steps. Luckily it's not meant to be anything particularly fancy or "artistic" because we gradually garner a large audience as more and more guests arrive for the party. I pose with the sunflowers. I pose by myself. I pose with Aulie and Apple.

At some point I realize that the whole photo affair is being broadcast live on a large screen facing the sort of square that the manor abuts. My surprise and embarrassment is writ large on my face. I can see as well as hear people as they laugh.

Following the photography session, we head inside. Jeff Zimmer is waiting to engage me in a brief interview as soon as the majority of the guests have arrived. We sit together at a table on a raised platform and make small talk until then, listening to the mumble of chatting partygoers, soft, recorded music, and the not as subtle as the people probably think clicking of cameras.

I see Erinne and Spring kissing beside a large vase of tropical flowers. They look pretty. So happy too. I can't pick Irish out of the crowd, but, presumably, she's here now as well. Nar is making a complicated series of hand gestures to an Avox, giving me the impression he "speaks" their special language. Some of the people do a lot of looking at me. Others just carry on with their socializing like Mr. Zimmer and I aren't even here. I guess it doesn't make much difference to me either way. I just notice.

When the president arrives, business, as it is, begins in earnest. The crowd quiets down and Mr. Zimmer turns on his microphone. He asks me if I've been having as much fun on the Tour as I appear to be having and, of course, I respond in the affirmative. As troubling as some aspects of it have been, it _has_ been fun. He quizzes me about some of the things I ate and saw and did, all easy questions intended to amuse the audience as a result of either my enthusiasm or the perceived provincial quality of the districts or some combination thereof.

No one is surprised that I can't decide on either a favorite food or a favorite district outside of my own. Apple speaks up from behind me to suggest that that I might discover that my favorites are things I have yet to experience here, which is also an inevitable crowd pleaser.

I look around while people laugh and can pick out just one fellow victor in the crowd. Jack Umber is twenty-seven now (or twenty-eight?), bronze and glowing, but with that First Games refresher on my mind, I find I just don't know him well-enough yet to completely stop seeing the boy he was when he won his Games (missing teeth, bloody nose, black eye, so very many cuts and bruises) superimposed over the man he's become.

Before I know it, Mr. Zimmer is complimenting me on providing a thoroughly satisfying Tour for everyone to watch (on some level this is a commentary on Emmy's stilted, unsatisfying Tour that proceeded it) and asking me if I have any last remarks I want to make to the audience here.

And, for some reason, I say yes.

Even if I can't say it as perfectly as I would like, my public speaking skills being somewhat lacking, I know basically what it is I would like to say. It will not all be true and I can only hope that the people back home (the ones who matter) will understand.

I put on my brightest smile and I thank the Capitol. I thank them for the house, the clothes, the money, the food, the opportunities. I push the notion that most, if not all, of District 4 harbors similar feelings, dreaming of the chance to rebuild bridges burned with the Capitol during the recent war.

On the one hand, I am kissing up. On the other hand, I am yearning for something further down the road- something better. There are many rotten things in the Capitol, but they don't extend down through every thing and every person. There has to be middle path. The further we diverge, the districts and the Capitol, the harder reuniting will be. The Capitol has had their little revenge- if only they could say, if only would say that it's been enough. If that were to happen, that impossible thing, for my part, I'd consider what I've been through to be worth it.

But to think anything would happen because of me is to grossly overstate my own importance. I can only do the smallest of things. I could only volunteer for one girl. I can only nudge these people in what I believe is the right direction.

I look at Jack as he looks at me. That's it, isn't it? That's also what Jack is doing (please don't let me be wrong). He's become like the Capitol to convince the Capitol. Would it be enough if we just (lied and) said we (the districts) were wrong? Look at us, please, and see that we're not so different after all.

I admit that I've found it difficult gaining my footing as a victor, but I promise to keep on trying. I promise to try as hard as I can to make 4 a district they'll always think of fondly.

"I want," I conclude with the absolute truth, "To make many more friends."

…and never have to kill them. To keep them always.

People clap. Mr. Zimmer thanks me. I thank him back. I need to sit for a second and compose myself, but I am free now to mingle, to eat, to enjoy the live music that picks up when I am done.

"All that spunk you've got in you," Apple shakes her head a little and pats my shoulder.

I slouch and finger the hem of my veil. "That took it out of me though… And I'm a little embarrassed now."

"Well," she encourages me, "Just pick yourself up and we'll go bury that feeling in the business of making those new friends." She gives me her hand and coaxes me down onto the floor with everyone else. At first she sticks close by my side (and Aulie and Nar aren't far away either), but as I speak with whichever of the people want to chat with me and prove that I'm going to be all right- or whatever it is she's looking for- she gradually drifts further away.

She is right though about my being able to move on from my discomfort to other thoughts. There are just _so many_ people who want to devote a moment or two of their time to talking to me. This is tiring too in a way, being the center of attention. I conclude my current conversation and drift toward one of the decked out tables where the food sits.

"You should feel free to indulge your appetite, Miss Gaudet," the president says to me. I go rigid with shock. "We are all aware of how much you like to eat."

"W-well, as long as it doesn't seem rude," I stutter. Compared to the amount of eating I've seen so far at Capitol parties, the amount of food present seems excessive, but it does look appetizing- and gorgeous. More time and effort was probably put into styling the food into these wondrous displays of perfection than it was in gussying up me (not that I think that's a bad thing). "People keep wanting to talk to me and I was worried I shouldn't be trying to eat on and off between conversations," I sigh. When I'm feeling this nervous about this many things at once, even being around the president doesn't get to me as much.

"Yes, do, eat," he encourages me, "…Assuming the fine things we have available are to your tastes."

He pauses.

I try not to gape. …Is the president of Panem about to make a Crispco crackers joke? I hope not.

"…But I could always send an aide off to the store for some crackers, if those would be more to your tastes."

…I think I am gaping a bit now. "N-no, thank you. What you have here is more than fine."

Some of the people around us are laughing at his Games callback. He chuckles and I stiffen up. "I am always glad to oblige for a victor, my dear."

I would like to get away from the president as quickly as possible, but that's a temptation that I shouldn't give in to.

Quickly enough, however, he moves away from me, bidding me good evening and making a beeline for the pair of Jack Umber and Jeff Zimmer. I lean back against the table, feeling a bit weak in the knees.

I attempt to revive myself by biting into an excessively fancily frosted cookie. Nar shows up out of somewhere looking a bit nervously in the direction of the president's wake (nice to know it's not just me) and pulls out a chair for me. "You should aim never to walk the edge of the knife, Miss Mags," he advises me. "…May I call you 'Miss Mags?'"

Even if I were bothered, I don't have the energy to argue. "It's fine," I wave a hand through the air.

Nar picks up a little paper plate and makes it his business to build me a small pyramid of sweets before setting the one-use dish on the table beside me. "…What will you do as District Four liaison?" I ask him.

"Manage your appointments, for one thing. Apple can't be expected to do that all the time. She's in charge of tributes, mainly. Victors fall a bit more under the purview of my department. …I've tentatively scheduled your first television appearance with Jack Umber, for instance."

"Oh," I nod, "I see." Kind of.

"Hello, Nar," Tosca joins us with her serious-faced brother on her heels. "Cute speech," she regards me as impassively as usual. "Mags, this is my little brother, Coriolanus."

He must be half Tosca's age, which makes him of reaping age, but still younger than me. His eyes are blue and biting. He looks like Tosca in this regard. "Hi," he says to me, "Congrats, I guess."

"Nice to meet you," I respond, the same as I have to all the other people I'm bound to forget in a day or so (just too many all at once and I'll probably never see any of them again- I'm focusing my remembering on anything relevant about Nar).

He really is like Tosca in his manner of heavy visual scrutiny. It's just he's not important. It's harder to feel uncomfortable under the gaze of a thirteen or fourteen year old.

Tosca looks at Coriolanus for a moment like she expects him to say something more. "Let's take a picture," she suggests at length, shoving her comm device into Nar's fumbling hands. I quickly whip my mouth with the back of my hand and make sure my dress and veil are neat. Tosca stands to one side of me. Coriolanus flanks me on the other. We smile. Nar manages to pull off the task.

"Enjoy yourself," Tosca takes her leave of me, brother still near at her side, "You've only got a smudge of spotlight left."

"It's more than enough," I reply. I don't think I should say that it can't end soon enough. Things will be easier when it's not all about me. …at least I hope so.

I eat the cookies and other assorted pastries Nar picked out for me. He suggests that he take Shy and me out for cake and coffee the next time we're all in the Capitol together. I wonder vaguely if he knows whether Shy makes such bold suggestions about looking at her bloomers to lots of people or whether I'm special in that regard, but it's just not the kind of thing I can ask. …not a man, at least. Would Sophie know something like that? Sunny?

Apple rejoins us. "That looks good," she points out a cookie studded with dried cherries.

"I already had two," I offer it to her.

"You know I think you're a darling brat," she smiles, turning the cookie around between her long, decorated nails.

"I like you too, Apple," I counter. This is just the kind of relationship we have.

"Lycius!" bellows a large man with indigo freckles and that's enough to get Nar rushing off with a friendly skip in his step, leaving behind the chair he was dragging over to our position with its back facing us.

Before anyone else can commandeer the slim golden seat to some other location, a man settles down on it, sitting backwards to face us.He's wearing mainly gray and black and white, but his tie has green stripes. It comes as no surprise that the whole ensemble is very well tailored. Like me, his looks run toward the ordinary side, but the people in charge know how to make him handsome.

"Hi Mags," he greets me. Jack Umber knows my name (I already know, I know so many times over, yet here I am reliving it- does it sound different in the Capitol?). I shouldn't find this as strange as I do. Everyone in Panem knows my name. I am the victor of the 12th Hunger Games.

"That was some speech," Jack continues. I don't know if this is his way of congratulating me or he's just kidding around. …His way of congratulating me would probably include kidding around.

"She wrote most of them herself based on the outlines I gave her. This one, however, was all Mags." Apple sounds very proud of me. I suppose it's related to how surprised she was that I actually agreed to write some of my own lines. For all of the Victory Tour until this point, I just let them feed the meat of the speeches to me. Even considering, it was exhausting.

And then it hits me. Jack can tell the difference. After all my canned dialogue from 12 to 1, he knows I've addressed these Capitol people in basically my own words. My nervous embarrassment probably shows in my tense smile.

"Oh, yes," he agrees with Apple, looking at me, all bright-eyed and (mock?) sincere, "No one can mangle a sentence like Miss Gaudet."

…This is the part where I haul off and slug him, right?

…Right?

He stands up and towers over me. He stretches out his hand. "You dance in Four, don't you? …a bit more easily than you dance in Three? Or Seven?"

I sit up straighter. I think I honestly tremble a little (why? is he scary?). I feel it run through my body. The silvery hem of my veil flutters against my back.

"Do you," he leans over slightly, "Want to dance with me?"

"Uh-uh," I gasp out.

"Well," he turns to Apple, "How about you?"

She agrees (I think she's flattered) and I drop down into her chair to watch as she swirls about the shimmering floor (the tiles are sort of opalescent) with Jack. They're a very Capitol-pretty pair. When they rejoin me, Apple is flushed, from exertion I think. She may not sit around all day, but she doesn't run or dance or swim of anything frequently either. She handles it gracefully. I surrender the seat back to her, although she probably would've let me keep it and switched to the one Jack or I vacated.

So I'm standing now and Jack is back to standing in front of me. There is an unspoken question on his smiling lips. Something like, "Maybe you changed your mind?" But he just looks at me and keeps on smiling until I feel awkward again, the calm brought from watching him at a distant eroded.

"The dancing in Four is kind of different," I tell him, an explanation to a question he never asked.

"I'd like to see," he says. "The only time I've been to Four was on the Tour. That was kind of a long time ago now." He tips his head a bit to the side, remembering. When Jack Umber came to District 4, I must have been about six, but I don't remember it. I can only remember him on television. …the war wounds of the district were practically still smoldering. No one would've danced, even at a forced celebration. "…It's sort of pathetic, but the best thing I remember about Four was that no one threw anything at me there. Everyone was really quiet about their distaste for the situation."

He's done it again. I've been hooked by a story. This is it, isn't it? This is how strangers connect. The stories that they share. Stories are not how Jack won the Hunger Games, but they are the way he lived on after. "Do you remember anything else?" I ask. I've taken the bait, even as I see it for what it is.

"The smell of salt in the air. The sun shining on the water." He shakes his head. He looks nicer a bit tousled than perfectly coiffed and combed. …Or is it that I think that about everyone? "Nothing grand, I guess."

"I don't think the things I'm going to remember from my Tour will be anything grand either." And people were generally nice to me. …But the bad things, the hard things, they stick out in my memory. It's probably the same for Jack.

The band finishes playing one song. Another song begins. He's asking without asking again (or I read into his subtle shifts in expressions way too much).

"I'll dance," I say.

"With me?" he has to make sure. That he asks for this kind of clarification only intensifies my positive feelings toward him. The Capitol is not fond of asking permission (or it is only a meaningless token, where they ask, but don't care what you answer).

"Yes."

The closer I stand by him, the taller he seems to loom over me.

I have trouble finding the rhythm of this unknown music.

The song is fast.

Jack barely touches me- only my hand.

"The next song is a slow one," he can tell from the first few notes. What he means is, "Would you like to dance more? This one will be easier."

I agree to it, but slower dancing, in this kind of context, means more touching, and even though Jack doesn't act strange about it, I find myself feeling increasingly embarrassed. Looking Jack right in the eye would be too excruciating (like looking into the sun), but looking away and watching myself be watched would be even more horrific.

I take advantage of Jack's height and stare at his vest. The way the light shines on the rippling fabric starts to make me think of water.

"You know, you don't have to think about what we're doing if you want to," Jack says, "You could tell me a story about yourself right now."

"A story?" Yes, I have understood something about this man already that goes down deep into his being. It makes me wonder…when he was a little boy, what kind of stories did people tell Jack Umber?

"Just a short one," he sort of shrugs.

"I can't think of one just like that," I admit, defeated, but distracted.

He's unphased though, as usual, and he turns his question around onto himself. "How about I tell you something else then? I'll tell you about this thing that's been on my mind lately."

This mood is easier. I meet his lively eyes.

"You see, I have this wish-"

It's not a calculated answer; it's what just immediately comes to my mind. "Stop," I shake my head, "You don't say what you're wishing for. If you do, then it will never come true."

Jack laughs. "You- you want my wish to come true?"

…And why wouldn't I?

He knows the song. He knows it's about to end. He dips me low and I resist the urge to flail around as someone else takes control of my center of gravity.

…Is it because we're victors? Is "I want to live," the only wish we can have answered? Because, like most people, as soon as my wish was granted, I only had more. "Jack," I say without even knowing what I want to follow it, as he helps me right myself, "I-"

"You," he takes over for me, "Are a good dancer, and even better when you don't think too much about dancing. …But now," someone or something else catches his eye across the room, "It is time for me to let you go and allow other people to enjoy your fine company."

"Oh. Okay."

"Have a lovely night," he nods to me, turns, and leaves.

"You and he make a pretty pair," Aulie comes up alongside me.

"Don't say that," I shush him.

But he's a good friend too. Now that people have seen that I'll dance many of them want to try their hand at spinning me around the floor. Aulie subjects all of them to some kind of silent test before he lets any of them touch me and he makes sure that I get a break here or there.

Eventually it's just too late and I'm just too tired. I ask to take some of the cherry cookies home to Papa and Faline, which seems to really amuse Nar (Apple tells him, "she's always like this"), who goes to tackle this newest in the ongoing series of small jobs with gusto.

The party is hardly beginning to wind down, but, fortunately, no one forces me to stay. I don't see the president anywhere, but Jack is back on the dance floor, dipping some…um, ridiculously endowed…woman with purple hair to match her shimmering dress. There are lines showing under his eyes- he's human, he gets tired too- but he's still smiling.

I leave, a bit vexed upon realizing I didn't talk to him about any of the things I had previously wished so much to discuss with him.

When I awake, I am on the train, mere miles from District 4.

Apple's first words to me that day are, "Almost home!" I drag along, tired from the late night proceeding this. Two small bags of cherry cookies from the party are sitting on the table alongside the bouquet of sunflowers, which someone has arranged in a vase. Amidst all the yellow another color has been inserted since I last laid eyes on them. A single pink rose.

"Where'd this come from?" I quiz Apple.

"Mmm…I don't know," she shakes her head. "Nar set those up."

And he's back in the Capitol, not here to ask. I don't have to ask to know he didn't say anything about. He might not have even known himself, considering the press of people and things going on around us. The rose probably ended up falling into my flowers by accident and he just went along with it.

I can see the waving streamers blowing over the highest rooftops in town when the train pulls in.

Papa is waiting for me, along with Dan Armain- presumably because Dan has a sea salt rusted old truck he can drive us in. The truck is there too, but it has a new coat of blue paint. "Welcome back!" my father calls the moment he sees me, lifting his arms above his head.

"It's gonna be the biggest Fall Festival ever!" Dan chimes in enthusiastically. "The whole town's been made up on the Capitol's dime! You've not gonna recognize some of it!"

I run down to Papa, who folds me up in one of the tightest hugs he can manage (even pressed still against my skin, I can feel the twitch of nerves in his hand). "There was this Lycius fellow down here with a crew organizing local folks to work on it almost the whole time you were gone. …I missed you."

"I missed you too," I respond.

"Of course," he admits, "At least I got to see you on television every day."

"So not fair," I laugh.

I dress simply for the home affair. There's no speechmaking. I am paid attention to and captured on camera, but every eye in the district is not on me. I may be the guest of honor, but the party would go on without me.

I give Faline the cookies I wanted for her, along with the bundle of flowers for good measure. She shows me a basket she made while I was away based on the method I've been attempting to teach even as I improve my own skills. When one of the cameramen compliments her work, she gives the item to him as a gift.

Papa proudly shows me the homemade thank you card sent to me from the hospitalized children in 6, making sure the cameras capture it.

The focus of the event is really just mingling around a big fish fry. Local news floats around. Dan Armain's niece is pregnant. 'Lito's father has been able to hire on two new hands at the boat shop because of the effects of my victory- parcel day brought more food in, which freed up money to be spent on things like repairs. Saigo Kanno has made a preliminary proposal to his girlfriend now that they had only one last reaping to outlast (some people think doing even this is inviting bad luck). Tylina is going to be taken on part-time as an assistant to the Crestas at their ropes and nets business (I think their very handsome son about five years older than us may have something to do with this).

Mostly I just try to sit quietly and enjoy eating and hearing and seeing familiar things.

Aulie gets drawn into helping fry the fish by some of the boys. Erinne sits and sketches some of the decorations. Irish and Spring bring out a makeup kit and set to work making over anyone who feels so inclined (it's mostly little girls and grandmothers- I think other people who are interested as kind of embarrassed).

Apple asks Papa if he'd like to take a stroll and he agrees after a short hesitation. They head off at leisurely pace toward the shoreline.

I'm alone in the crowd for a while. One of the cameramen is idly observing the footage (I don't know whether this is the official airing to the districts or some kind of rerun or what) of me in the Capitol last night. He notices me looking and comes over to tilt the palm-sized screen my way. "Take a look," he smiles.

Onscreen I am twirling awkwardly in Jack's arms.

"That Jack Umber, huh?" 'Lito speaks up from nearer than I realized.

I try to read his face as he watches the dancing, but it's harder than anticipated. My own feelings are clouding my judgment. Whatever 'Lito thinks, he doesn't look away.

Someone breaks out fireworks and the sky lights up with color. The cameras are careful to capture it all- the color as it bursts through the night, as it reflects on the water, as it illuminates my face.


	6. Part II, Chapter I

**Part II. **

**We Were To Come This Far**

The call I am expecting, asking me to come into the Capitol and appear on television with Jack, never comes. This is not to say that nothing regarding Games publicity, or Jack even, occurs in the months following the end of my Victory Tour and the lead up to the next Games.

Instead, I participate by phone on a trivia game show as Jack's partner. He and two Capitol contestants are at the filming in person and each of them gets a victor as a call-in backup. One is a famous fashion designer who partners with Pal. The third is a movie director who picks Hector. I can hardly imagine a worse ally in the game than me. I don't know almost any of the things they ask about, but Jack pleads ignorance and convinces me to make many best guesses, all of which are wrong and some, judging by the response they receive, hysterically so. I take some solace in the fact that Pal and Hector are only marginally more successful players than I am. Jack comes in last place. I suspect that he purposely exaggerated his loss margin for maximum entertainment value. Our consolation prize is a coupon for a lunch for two at some restaurant in the Capitol I've never heard of. I tell Jack that he should just use it with whomever he likes, but he says he'd rather save it to use with me sometime when I'm around.

I think this gives me the impression we will see each other soon, but we don't.

I have a hard time deciding whether I am glad of this or disappointed.

I go on to also be interviewed by telephone several times for magazines. Each exchange is preceded by Nar calling ahead and asking if I'm willing to speak with some particular person for such-and-such a purpose. He vets all of them on his own first as part of his job.

He also sends several packages my way on and following my eighteenth birthday of cards and gifts from fans in the Capitol. None of the presents on their own seem too over the top, but taken as a whole, it's kind of excessive. I give some of the jewelry gifts to Faline and tell her to share them with her friends if she likes.

I wonder how one fan knew my shoe size.

I slowly read through all the cards and letters a few every evening before I go to bed. All the people are very nice, although some of them say things I can't quite understand. Nar tells me just to accept them graciously and issues a blanket thank you on my behalf. I've heard that sometimes celebrities receive strange things from their fans, but if anything untoward was directed toward me, Nar weeded it out beforehand.

The snacks (and there are _lots_ of snacks owing to my love of eating being a heavily publicized characteristic of mine) I spread around everywhere. Papa picks out some he likes, we put together a gift basket's worth for the Armains, another for the Mirandes, the Beaumonts, the Ayus (I've never talked to them much since Aoko died, but I know they pay attention to me), and I still have enough left to share with my casual class, letting home every "student" take home one thing for themselves and one for each of their siblings. I conduct all these group activities with an undercurrent of fear that someone will dub them too close to breaking the rule forbidding training for the Games even though no one ever picks up any weapons or fights.

I receive some further birthday well wishes from the districts via cards from Sunny, Shy, Raisin (I think that Kayta's supposed signature was actually written by her because it resembles her writing so closely), Sophie, and Pal, who also calls me up and sings a birthday song I've never heard before, but gets really embarrassed immediately after and all but hangs up on me.

I'm a bit surprised that I don't hear from Jack, but he's probably too busy for that kind of thing.

No one comes out to visit me from the Capitol (not that I mind), but I correspond a bit with both Aulie and Apple. They both seem happy with the goings-on in their own lives.

The moments when I panic while wading in the ocean or handling dead fish come less frequently. When I fill my days, I'm less likely to dream, so I try to pack my schedule to avoid nightmares. I work on my ostensible weaving talent (I think Faline is better than me); I help Papa and his crew; I go swimming.

'Lito's dad is making him work a lot at the boat shop (I'm not sure if it's just a side effect of their being more work available there or if there's some special reason), but he comes by the house often when he's free. Sometimes I don't want to talk to him, or anyone, really, for that matter, and I carefully peek out of an upstairs window from beneath the curtain and watch as he stares at the place for a while before leaving.

One day when I asked Faline what she liked best about watching the Victory Tour she turned the question over to 'Lito and he said I looked "so pretty."

I don't exactly avoid him after this, but when it's just the two of us, not always, but sometimes, a weird feeling creeps up in me. I like him as a friend, but I don't want him to think of me like…like I'm pretty. Like that.

He is nice and clever with his hands. His dark eyes are very engaging. But I don't think I like him that way. And I know I don't want to be liked. It's not 'Lito's fault. It's not just him and I can't tell him how to feel. But I don't want to be liked that way by anyone.

Soon enough, spring unfolds.

Like a game of hot or cold, it's getting warm, hot, hotter...

I go out to observe the pleasant effects of the final Parcel Day my win has gifted to Four's people. Most people don't even pay attention to me, probably because I've been around for the event all but one time, but there are some casual 'thank you's given out, along with an undercurrent of disappointment at the end of their good fortune.

A girl, Maria, who looks to be about my age, though I don't know her (she lives further from town, maybe, or she could have dropped out from school earlier- it's not as if that's entirely uncommon), makes an impression on me with her enthusiasm for the future even though that's it for the Capitol-given bounty. She makes a big fuss over showing me her baby, who sleeps, comfortable and oblivious, in a sling across her chest. "I was able to save more, see," she explains, "Because of the parcels, and stretch things. …If you hadn't won, I don't think I would've been able to afford to keep him."

I'm happy for both of them, but a little embarrassed for the attention. Maria can keep her son for now, but someone in those straits can hardly be sure things are set for the long term. There's only so much my win has accomplished for the district, but, "…Is there anything?" I grasp at the air. I feel like there's no way I can do otherwise.

"We get closer all the time, you know," Maria looks down at the baby, "The more he means to me, the more I'll fight to keep him. I know I'm going to manage somehow."

I admire her optimism. "Yeah," I try to agree with her, "Hang in there, both of you."

Papa is disappointed he didn't come along with me when I tell him about Maria and her son. I tell him he should be happy he doesn't have too many little kids in his life to worry about anymore. I say it in a joking way, but there's something serious about my feelings as well. The more people you love, the more weaknesses you have.

I lie awake worrying about who might be chosen for the next Games. I'm as bad as everyone else, hoping that it'll be someone that I don't know.

So just like that, the season for the Games comes around again, beginning, for me, with a letter from Nar outlining my general responsibilities within the Games structure as a victor and mentor (although he also mentions that Apple should be aware of all the relevant rules and strictures and able to provide me whatever guidance I require along the way).

After that comes Salvador's remark that he might want to volunteer. I can't exactly encourage him, but I can't discourage him either. I try to react as neutral as possible when I tell him the decision is up to him.

"But you'd be proud, right?" he presses me.

"…If it were to help someone who needed it," I relent. I know that pretty much anyone who could possibly be picked as tribute could need it. I just don't want Salvador to do something rash, least of all because he thought it was what I wanted from him. I know I am a horrible hypocrite because I do think a volunteer has better odds than someone reaped, but it's not like those odds are all that much improved. I will not deal that killing blow, but in some way, I am going to be responsible for what happens.

The third signal that the Games are at hand is a package from Erinne. "Spring and I came up with this one for you to wear to the Tribute Selection Ceremony," her note reads, "I hope it's comfortable."

Inside the package is a pink and white dress, two hair clips decorated with very realistic fake flowers in white, pink, and yellow, and a pair of pink and yellow sandals with lots of straps.

I show the outfit to Faline.

"What did you think you were going to wear?" she asks me, "Your same old reaping dress?"

I flush, seeing as she's hit the nail right on the head. "Uh, I guess you have a point," I answer. It would probably be a weird thing to do.

"If Miss Apple is wearing green," Faline pauses, "I'm sure she will be; you'll stand out in this."

I have a nightmare that Faline's name is called again. There's no rule against it that I know of. I don't think it's statistically all that likely since she's taken no tesserae and her name is only in there one time more than last year, but- Even though I can't recall any time that someone's name who was called once was called again and I'm sure they'd mention it if it were… I think of Pal's five living sisters at the time of his victory. I think about Teejay's sister, reaped after him; Luna's little brother whose cousin I killed in his place.

I have no siblings, but they hardly means they can't hurt me if they want to.

I don't tell Faline about the dream.

Some of the kids from "Survival Skills Club" as they've taken to calling it (I don't call it anything in particular) want to spend the evening before the reaping with me. They think it'll be good luck or something, but I don't want to.

I spend the day with Papa.

"You know that most of it is out of your hands, right?" he says, "Whatever happens, you can't beat yourself up over it, okay? You made it this far."

"I know," I say, but that doesn't mean I feel it.

I go to bed early.

The morning is a blur.

It's like I'm lost in some waking dream until I'm snapped halfway into reality: "District Four's first- and so far, only- victor, Mags Gaudet!" District 4 escort Apple Smitt says my name like a cheer.

And that's my cue. I stand up and wave. People who know me wave back. There's polite clapping.

"And, perhaps soon enough, there will be a new victor joining her!"

Apple, I think, can convince herself to believe in anything. I'm already reasonably sure that we will not be repeat winners. No district has had back-to-back wins yet and I see no reason why 4 would be the first. Unlike Apple, I can't be optimistic so easily. Maybe I have to tell myself right off the bat that we can't win this year to soften the inevitable blow. Of course, that doesn't mean I'm not going to do whatever I can to support our tributes. It isn't going to stop me from getting all torn up inside.

The obligatory film, the obligatory speeches. I think I have earned the right to ignore them, if nothing else. I tune out the words and allow my eyes to scan the crowd. Papa looks solemn and stiff, but I know the hint of relief of his posture- he has one child and she will not die in the arena (all he had to do was watch her kill).

It's like every other Reaping Day. They may blur together, but to a greater or lesser degree, I remember them all. Pretty much everyone is either openly or privately scared. Even old people without any families are on edge. I can't blame them.

I'm not sure if things are better or worse now that people generally go along with the Games and all their rigamarole. I was six years old when District 1's Jack Umber became the most famous district citizen in all of Panem (replacing the previous holders of that title- the leaders of the districts' rebellion). Riots broke out on nearly every stop of his Victory Tour (not 2- perhaps 2 had accepted these things), _including_ the supposedly Capitol-loving district he came from. I've heard that he received a lot of death threats. I don't think it was fair how much people in the districts hated him. _Someone_ had to win. The Capitol would've done everything they could to have their winner. And it had to be someone who killed. The Gamemakers beleaguered the last few pacifist tributes without mercy, even if the Capitol's commentators would never say so. "You play the game our way, or you die." They sent their message.

I don't know if people in the Capitol truly felt differently about Jack than the people in the districts, but the Capitol's television programs certainly loved him. …and still do, I would guess. I don't think it's only being the first that makes him the most visible victor. Jeff Zimmer always interviews him at the end of each Games, asking his opinion about the new victor. "That's a tough girl," is what he said about me. I think that's what's likable about him as a television personality. He's very straightforward.

…The fact that I am spending so much time mulling over Jack Umber is perhaps a sign that I am just as frightened as all the other people present (well, the ones who can't be reaped). They make the ceremony drag on on purpose, I think. There's something terrifying to be found in waiting.

Jack Umber said I was "a tough girl," but I wonder how he meant it. I'm not very tough, but you don't have to be the toughest to win. Just tough enough.

"Shaya Current!" Apple pulls from the girls.

Shaya's mother begins screaming hysterically. I know Shaya, marginally (how strange and horrifying it would be if I were put in the position of having to mentor someone I knew well). We were in the same year in school, though more often than not in separate classes. I remember her as a good swimmer, a volunteer lifeguard who watched over younger children as they played. She's the daughter of the mayor.

I try to picture Shaya as the victor of the 13th Hunger Games. In the movie in my mind, I am hugging her onstage in front of a Capitol audience. I am crying, but Shaya is able to hold herself together. "What a trooper," Jack Umber is grinning at Jeff Zimmer, "And such fine form in the water."

My delusional daydream shatters as Apple directs Shaya to speak into the microphone. She cannot speak her own name without sobbing. Mayor Current is silent but shivering.

"There, there, dear," Apple says to her, "It's okay to take a second. How about a deep breath? I'll pick the boy."

I think about Apple- my opinion of her now, knowing her pretty well (I assume), as opposed to when she was just "the district escort." Everyone here but Papa and me still basically feel that way (though my 'class' has gotten the chance to encounter Apple as the strange and interesting person that she is- foreign and flippant, but with her heart squarely in the right place). She is being as nice to Shaya as she can be, but it won't save her. No one cares. They don't think she's being nice at all.

She reaches into the giant fishbowl and plucks out a name. "Salvador Chavez," she reads with less enthusiasm. And when all eyes dart to Salvador, silently identifying him, I notice a twitch in her smile that likely passes the rest of them by unknowingly. Salvador is one of 'mine.' She's recognizing him.

Yes, Apple, that's what it's like. That's how hard it is when the tribute is just someone you know from around town.

Salvador goes from surprised to grimly stoic. He puts on tough grin for the crowd. If he can keep it up, the audience will like him. I've already seen that he's a strong and determined person. And he has a lot of spunk. My experience speaks to the fact that spunk entertains.

"Hey," he greets Apple onstage, acting amazingly calm and ordinary despite the situation (it's the same as I was, maybe- the feeling that it's not even real), "Nice to see you again. I don't know if you remember me, but we met at the end of the year in Mags' yard." He looks from Apple to Shaya and then out over the crowd, where his grandmother is clutching her string of worry beads, his mother is pulling at her hair, and his sister has the edge of her dress balled up in her fists. "I'm Salvador Alfonso Chavez, I am sixteen years old, and I will be proud to represent District Four in the Thirteenth Hunger Games."

His bravado seems to perk Apple up a bit. She convinces the people to give him a bit of applause.

Salvador tells some kind of lie about how he was planning on volunteering anyway unless the other boy didn't want him, but I even with what he told me last week, I seriously doubt it. Shaya stops crying, but doesn't speak up. Her father scribbles a note and passes it to Apple revealing that she is indeed Shaya Current and she is eighteen.

This is all a terribly bitter scene. I am glad I am not asked to contribute in any manner but my presence.

My real part will begin soon enough. But if I'm already wondering if either of them can win, I guess it has already begun.

The crowd splinters as Apple and I follow our tributes away. They'll say their goodbyes now and I'll say mine. The difference between probably permanent and obviously temporary is hundreds of thousands of miles.

"There weren't any volunteers," Apple says. Is she disappointed? Did she think someone might from the group that's been hanging around me? For my part, I'm relieved. It would be hard to deal with someone thinking they were going to be like me. The Capitol might like District 4 becoming the great sea of volunteers, but I don't think it would do us any favors in our relationship with the other districts. There have been no back to back wins. My victory is target enough on their backs.

Someone must have told Papa where to find us. "I ran into Aulus," he says. "I gave him your bag."

"Thanks, Papa." I wouldn't have to bring anything along if I didn't want to- the Capitol would see to it that everything I needed was provided. But in my down time, I'd rather wear my own clothes and handle some of my own things. Hopefully it will make Shaya and Salvador feel more at home too. "…You take care, okay."

"I'll be watching you on television everyday," he says. "I'll really be watching every part this time too."

"It's okay, Papa- I don't think anyone's going to call you out for looking away at the gruesome parts." It's my job (my duty) not to look away. Papa should take it easy. My victory should have earned him at least that much.

"Do take care of yourself, Mr. Gaudet," Apple pipes up.

"Could you say goodbye to Faline for me?" I ask. "And 'Lito?" They're not here and I don't want to rush around to find them, particularly not 'Lito. We'll see each other again. Acting too frantic like that might give him the wrong impression.

"Of course, sweetheart," he agrees, looking down at me. "I will," he adjusts his gaze upward to meet Apple's. "Thank you for thinking of me."

Papa is a harder read, but it's enough for me to think that Apple must really have a crush on him. …in any other situation than with the Games bearing down on us, my first impulse would be to rush off and tell Aulie how right we were, but there's little time for distractions now. "Goodbye, Papa. I love you."

I ride out to the train with Apple, Shaya, and Salvador in relative silence. "I'm going to do this, Mags," Salvador tells me. I think he's trying to psych himself up- mind over matter, right? "If I believe I can do it, maybe I can" - a theory that has something to it. But, in the face of these odds, I think to truly believe in yourself for the entire journey, you would have to be sort of deluded. Everyone has their doubts.

"It's my job, isn't it, to properly introduce you?" Apple considers the tributes and I.

"We both know her," Shaya answers. "Not just from TV. Personally, ma'am."

"And I know Apple too," Salvador tells Shaya.

Maybe she knows and maybe she doesn't. I don't think she cares because she doesn't respond to him. She addresses me instead, twisting a small piece of teal ribbon that might be her token around and around between her fingers. "You didn't have any grand plan that let you win. There were basically two things behind it. You stayed away from the other tributes for the first half and you got lucky in the second half."

"Someone's sharp!" Aulie speaks up.

As happy as I am to see him (oh, it's good to know that someone has my back), I am wondering about that. "Are you even supposed to be here?"

"Hmph, what a welcome," he pouts, looking to Apple and the others for sympathy while I slug him in the arm (which doesn't ruffle him any as far as I can tell) and then make up for it with a hug. "I am Aulus Strong," he introduces himself over my head, while he messes up my hair by rubbing his hand on the top between my buns, "Your unofficial co-coach, returning to the position by your mentor's invitation. If you are so inclined, you may call me 'Aulie.'"

"Hello," Shaya says.

"Hey, Aulie," Salvador is more enthusiastic. "I remember seeing you on TV with Mags. …Do you think there's any way I can get my arms half as big as yours before the Games start?"

"Ah, don't I wish, kiddo," he smiles, though his first disappointment of the Games comes when he finds out that neither of them have nicknames ("What kind of nickname would a girl named 'Shaya' even have?" Shaya wonders, sort of annoyed). Salvador does volunteer "Sal" as an option for himself, but it's not what he's normally called back home. He's just Salvador.

I feel terribly uncomfortable, so it's easy to imagine Salvador and Shaya only feel worse.

"…Can I look around?" Shaya asks, cocking an eyebrow.

I'm relieved for the break in the pressure. "Feel free," I shrug.

That's good enough for her. She turns and head off through the train. Salvador looks from me to Aulie to Apple and then back to me. "Me too," he half asks, half declares. I can't do more much than shrug at him too.

He moves away briskly, though I doubt he has much interest in actually catching up with Shaya. Though, what do I know? As far as my knowledge extends, until now, they were only just aware of one another.

"Cheer up, Mags, dear," Apple puts an arm around my shoulders, "You'll get the hang of it."

Thinking back on all of Apple's behavior that I've seen up through now, I have to reconsider her (and Aulie, to a lesser degree). Is she amazing or amazingly deluded? What sets a person up to be able to do the job that she does? I know she has feelings just like anyone else. I know she feels sad, or at least disappointed, when 4's tributes die. How does she do this the way she does, year after year? …what can I do to be a bit more like Apple? It's a question I never realized I would stand here and ask.

"This is going to be awful," I groan. I don't see any point in holding back my true feelings as long as my tributes aren't there to hear.

"You never know," Aulie counters, "And you've got to stay on top of your game if you want it to be any other way."

He's right, I suppose.

"Let's go, get a very aromatic snack, sit down to watch the other live tribute selections, and see how long it takes those two to show up," Apple suggests. I don't see any reason to counter her idea.

The Avox with the long blond hair is in the kitchen. I can't exactly say that seeing her makes me feel better, but her presence only adds to the familiarity of the situation. On one level, I know I'm safe- I don't have that deep-seeded fear of dying rushing through me- but on another, it feels like last year all over again, just with friends around me rather than strangers. I'm going back. I'm going back.

At Apple's request, the pretty Avox heats up some kind of pre-baked fruit tarts for us. "Nothing says Capitol like ruining your appetite for regular meals, right?" Aulie jokes.

The tarts do smell good.

"Thanks," I linger to speak with- well, at, the Avox. "Thanks for this and everything before too."

She dips her head and her bangs shift gently across her forehead and over her eyes.

I think about my arrival into 1 on the Victory Tour. I wonder where she came from before all this. Who she could possibly have been for anyone to think she deserved something like this. I'm not sure there's any safe way to ask her. I don't want to cause her any trouble. However hard her life might be, she puts up a good front. I hope she really is happy, in whatever small ways she can manage to be, as people nearly always can.

"Maaaags," Aulie verbally yanks me along.

We sit down in time to see the last bit of District 8's live broadcast. There's a brown-haired boy smiling while tears slide down his cheeks. He has very crooked teeth. There's a black-haired girl in a gray dress and green headscarf who doesn't smile or cry, but breathes through her open mouth. Pal, standing behind them, looks…rather determined, I have to say. I doubt it's what anyone would consider his default expression. What, I wonder, does it mean?

Then again, I over-think things, don't I?

I manage to eat a tart, a plum one, during 9's reaping. It probably helps that I don't have to watch Luna blanch at the calling of a relative this year. The escort, Denia, an acquaintance of Apple's, is wearing a gold dress supposed to look like wheat. Luna looks bored. I think that's the expression she wears as a defense against the world.

"That victor, Luna," says Salvador, "She really scares me."

"Just hope her tributes aren't like her," Aulie grins at him.

Salvador brushes a hand against his cheek. There's nothing there, so I can only assume he's self-conscious about having probably done a little private crying. He comes around to sit with us, fitting into the space between me and Aulie. "Most tributes aren't like their mentors," Salvador concludes after thinking on it for a few moments, "A tribute more like their mentor might win."

"Does that mean you want to be like Mags?" Aulie inquires.

"Well, I want to live," Salvador quips in return. It's part joke, part sincere. I see it as a definite parallel between Salvador and me.

…and I played pretty well, as I gathered over the course of my Tour. But that's not all there is to winning the Games. That's nothing compared to pure luck and a willingness to kill.

The District 10 reaping begins without any sign that Shaya is planning on joining us. Onstage in 10, Emmy Pollack isn't responding to the announcement of her name, but that hard-working escort is undaunted. "And aren't you Emmy Pollack?" he turns away from the crowd to face her.

"Oh, yes," she says, "Yes, that's right. I am." The applause she receives from the audience is rather subdued. What can 10 do with their victor but pity her?

"I think someone should check on Shaya," Apple declares. "Would you rather, Mags?"

"She might prefer it be you," I suggest, although it's a difficult thing to judge.

"You don't mind if she doesn't eat with us?" Apple asks when she returns.

"If she…doesn't want to…" I don't know quite what to make of it. I mean, I'm sure there are tributes who don't want to eat with the entourage, but I don't know how I'm supposed to react to it. Am I supposed to make her? The exact chain of expected events makes me uncomfortable enough. The unexpected is even worse.

"I believe as mentor it's your call," Apple tells me.

I try to get a grip and be more decisive. "She can eat on her own," I say. "But she should at least try and eat something. We'll make her a plate."

Salvador is understandably impressed by the lunch spread. "Did you gain a lot of weight after you won the Games?" he puts his blunt, bright-eyed gaze on me.

"Ten pounds," I confirm. If it hadn't been gradual, it would've been jarring. And is this it or will there be more? I can't say I know. I don't think I eat too much. I just eat…more often? More regular amounts?

"You didn't get taller though."

"I think it's too late for that."

"You'd have to get special hormone shots," Aulie muses.

I would never have even thought of it, though with the Capitol I can't be all that surprised that it exists as a possibility. "I'm fine being short." I pick out a large plate for Shaya so I can put a large variety of things on it in hope that something is to her tastes. I focus on items that aren't too strange or hard on the stomach based on my experience. "Excuse me," I slip off with the finished platter in hand.

I knock on the door labeled with her name. "Hey, Shaya. I brought you some lunch. Can I bring this in?"

She opens the door. "I'm mortified, you know?" she sighs. "I'm going to die at eighteen and soon enough all anyone but my family will remember will be the manner of my inevitable death and how I couldn't even say my name onstage."

"Not everyone," I answer.

"Oh, right. You'll remember. …but will it matter, Mags? Eighteen years, all for nothing?"

I don't know what I can tell her. "Thinking that won't make it better though."

"Yeah, but-"

"You can't stop," I sigh too, "I know."

She takes the full plate from me and turns away. "Thanks for lunch at least."

I hope Shaya enjoys her lunch more than I do.

"There's been more talk about the sponsorship idea," Aulie informs me, "But with no official announcement at this point, I doubt it's going to make it into this year's Games. …Next year maybe. Jack's support seems to have been pretty powerful though. When he talks about it, it gets people talking."

"What kind of things does Jack say about sponsoring tributes?" I mean, he's Jack, so I'm sure he thinks of something, but I can't picture it.

"Well, in person it's just talk, but on television he shows clips of well-received tributes who were in need at some point or other and then gets into 'what ifs' of if they'd gotten a sponsor gift at some critical moment."

"That sounds interesting," Salvador pipes up.

"All tributes who didn't make it, huh," I imagine.

"Ha," Aulie chuckles, "You'd think. And you're mostly right, but you know Jack. He can be pretty tongue and cheek with this stuff. He's shown himself, for one."

"He would, huh?" Salvador nudges me.

I give a forced grin. It would do no good to protest against my role as resident District 4 Jack Umber specialist.

Salvador bothers me for some general Games-related advice, although I have to protest that most of it I've told him before in the days he spent hanging around me after my return home. I fold my hands and look down at my knees. One new thing comes to me. "Don't ally with anyone you won't be happy dying alongside," I say. Not that you wouldn't mind killing- better odds you'll both end up dead anyway. "Don't ally with anyone you wouldn't be happy to see win either, since you'll probably have second thoughts about the alliance pretty fast otherwise."

"…probably go alone then," he posits.

"Oh," I see that we're headed into the tunnel. "Get up," I urge Salvador, "Go look. We're almost in the Capitol."

We are blinded by the rush of sunlight over water and the brilliant city metropolis together.

I feel a tremor run through Salvador as he takes my hand.

...Or maybe it's my own.


End file.
